1. |
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with every passing day
i watch a red nose grow
upon my drunken house.
plunging in its cavernous enclosure
i try to find the light
but drown in mucus and in bile
which gushes out in rivers
at the sight of unfamiliar angles,
a leg askew, a lonely ear, a drooling eye,
another running heart.
running into the stubbled street,
my soles adorned with razor blades, i
scrape the chin of every highway in
this city without walls or towers.
broken glass still reflects
quiet room, heart still pounds
endless rays unaligned
begging for answers
broken neck reaching out
without hope or a cause
silent songs are still songs
if you listen.
in my dreams i see my face,
a nacreous disc suspended in space.
in my dreams i know your place,
a hole in the wall and a vacant embrace.
underneath the city’s skin i grow, a genital network of
roots, blind and swollen, slowly absorbing forms and phantoms.
"we shot the past."
"is anything left?"
"not a trace."
"is the void profound?"
"it ventilates the whole city."
i am a living book, listing lamentations, moaning, and woe.
i am a city without walls or towers.
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2. |
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3. |
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absolute isolation of the one
you tried to be so absolute in your last isolation of the one sound you knew could summon god’s throat that you forgot to sing. i think you’re a bore.
if only you knew...
quiet, empty, walled
all sounds the same
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4. |
...And Has No End
03:48
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5. |
Century Of Hands
13:07
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century of hands that reach
from a burning point in time.
in each crease a flock of birds nests.
on each fingertip, a grove of palms in blossom,
swathed in the scarred scarves of holy words and
cradled in the wet arms of your tongue,
contracting and turning, demures.
where the sun should hang, above the
manifold of salt and sulfur respires a
symmetry of hands collapsing
into three vertices of light.
on each crease a flock of birds nests.
On each fingertip a grove of palms in blossom,
swathed in the scarred scarves of holy words and
cradled in the wet arms of your tongue,
expanding and bursting, excoriates and
signifies in forms the isometric etching of its lost song:
“torn asunder by thorn and thunder
born a hart and died a hunter.”
comprehending this, i glimpsed in
my own hand the flocks and orchards
fading now but still alight with
bastard wings and pinnate branches
sloughing off my skin to grasp at
what i could not know, as the hand said,
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Victory Over the Sun Portland, Oregon
a girl who makes noise
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