floating and leaving no trace
i found your blood
in a red-stained envelope
waiting in my mailbox
throbbing like an organ
the thickened state of it
surprised me though
i thought it would be more akin
to ice water than a
hot, swirling pudding of
reds and browns
easy enough to take a pen
and write
–but carefully
so as not to puncture–
[return to sender]
and lift the heart-red flag
to alert the postman
i didn’t have a letter opener, you see
and i was out of stationery and
razor blades
for a proper reply
a vomitus of words erupted
from your throat
got caught in your teeth
stained your shirt
so many words
at once you couldn’t hear
what i was trying
to say
i wiped away
the recriminations
the explanations
the assassinations
and found you
had no ears
they had grown over
with a thick skin
unused for so long
cat meditating
on the cushion behind me–
sleepy, purring stone
i am stretched thin as a hair
speak to me and i vibrate
a single guitar string
in the cosmos
tying star to star
humming one note
if i were more
i would be a minor chord
complete and harmonious
yet melancholy even among
the celestial furnaces
stretched thin as a hair
tying star to star
if a fuse
i would burn
my embers meeting
in the middle of all things
summer strolls through
my backyard
leaving peaches fall
baking in the sun
attended by fig beetle and
squirrel
overwhelming sweet fermenting scent
fills the air
a thousand pies all at once
i long
for the taste of melting
ice cream on my tongue
the coarse grains
of the vanilla bean
a car
on the freeway honks
and i pretend it’s
one of lake geese
welcome to the slaughterhouse
we are all red in here
inside and out
i am a brick
or
i am made of bricks
one is reductive
the other an amalgam
both are red and brittle
and you can draw on the sidewalk
with a bit of it
clutched in your fist
hanging of the the bottom
of your hand
like a turd
that won’t drop
they say the jews
made bricks in egypt
and built the pyramids
even though that’s
probably not the case
but who knows
i have a time machine
in my head
but it’s faulty
no matter
how i try to travel to the future
the damned thing always pulls up
to a new york apartment
i don’t know and wasn’t
expecting
a doorman opens the door
his coat is red
the color of bricks
i’ve been thinking
that dorian mode
would be a good name
for a secret agent
who works
for the pope
i take my wrenches
brand new and gleaming
chiming like tuning forks
shining like suns
and disassemble these
clockwork angels
gears for guts
tightly-wound spring hearts
hollow aircraft grade aluminum bones
unseeing marbles embedded
in deep sockets
[they do not need to see–
they fly in darkness]
their oxyacetylene lungs
power their songs
their wings
their breath of fire
strewn about
their parts litter my garage floor
run your finger over
eight laid out in a row
and they ring
in the dorian mode
i watched the water
take the soap
in a small spiral
down the drain
it carried the dirt of the day
Words and Feathers 