The fingernails of my brain brim
Horizons of grime. Can’t seem to keep them paws
Out of the dirt.
And the dirt lives on the ground, so its head is always
And it claws like a dog spraying a groove under a fence
After he’s picked up in the scent what it would be like
To roll in the other grass, which is the same grass, but it’s
Across the pickets.
It’s the uncovering, and it’s dead awfully hard.
Thinking I must scratch sound to hear sound.
Not knowing, like this, of course there’d be only
Around me like hellrats…
For instance, hurling my eyes at vision, only
That they should slam against something like stonewall.
(And the crash, unscratched, unheard.)
Imagine how gravity would throw your skeleton
(Nest of forest twigs-become-tooth-pick birdcage)
Ten, twenty thirty stories
Meeting earth’s immovable bone—
That cold you’d feel crack your headrock—
That concrete is my vision.
Yes, finish off the senses, finish off the lines.
If you put your life here, in this poem’s lonely glass,
It will take its shape.
For isn’t that the oldest metaphor? Life—water?
Yes, water with yourself these lines.
My brain needs to rinse me clean from its hands.
About the feeling you get when you crash against your senses like waves against cove rocks, and you're unable to let yourself be transported by them. Unable to be in the moment because you're too busy thinking about them, too busy being stupefied by them, being paralyzed by them. And if not paralyzed, then looking like a desperate dog trying to dig, always trying to reach the root. Meanwhile life's passing you by.