I.
I trace you against
the skull
with the old photograph of
age 8 and 7
aloft and angling down some stage, or performance
in
this perforated dome I call home
trace you against
the map impaled to the wall
and locate you amongst the
geographies and heed
its brash distance
shake out its potency
like how my grandfather murders
the brief matchlight
I trace the trajectory
will not pivot to return
or scope rescue
none like this force,
the insufficiency of maps,
the harsh terror of adoration when
like a fruit ripened
will fall to the hand waiting
underneath
II.
Propel me to where it counts
into the masses transit-worn,
shorn out of the flyblown-dry in amazement
or immense performance of breaking
outside the window
when it rains forever
to Icarus in his blunder,
from the dilated pupil of my father while
watching television
from point-break of time
and sense when nothing made one kind word
as salvation
out of the tangle of clouds,
the skytilt angle where heaven might topple
at one point to scatter my reckoning of a god
from your place of interval
III.
space – where you will it,
when the night shining in,
far are the noctilucent skies
place me in the soft ease of beds when
burial is ideal
make me ****** than light at first glance
or water upon initial drop
and then in space, where you will it,
promise-tender, drunk in shy altitudes,
this most biddable machine will spread to make way
for weight giving in
to assume so small a drop of the pin in the ocean
or to cannonball – fitting chamber of a gun,
swimming in a mess of no restrictions,
prepared, contained to carve deep
in the night writhing in with him
with no need of hands to break point.
May 18, 2016
May 18, 2016 at 12:54 AM UTC
I.
I trace you against
the skull
with the old photograph of
age 8 and 7
aloft and angling down some stage, or performance
in
this perforated dome I call home
trace you against
the map impaled to the wall
and locate you amongst the
geographies and heed
its brash distance
shake out its potency
like how my grandfather murders
the brief matchlight
I trace the trajectory
will not pivot to return
or scope rescue
none like this force,
the insufficiency of maps,
the harsh terror of adoration when
like a fruit ripened
will fall to the hand waiting
underneath
II.
Propel me to where it counts
into the masses transit-worn,
shorn out of the flyblown-dry in amazement
or immense performance of breaking
outside the window
when it rains forever
to Icarus in his blunder,
from the dilated pupil of my father while
watching television
from point-break of time
and sense when nothing made one kind word
as salvation
out of the tangle of clouds,
the skytilt angle where heaven might topple
at one point to scatter my reckoning of a god
from your place of interval
III.
space – where you will it,
when the night shining in,
far are the noctilucent skies
place me in the soft ease of beds when
burial is ideal
make me ****** than light at first glance
or water upon initial drop
and then in space, where you will it,
promise-tender, drunk in shy altitudes,
this most biddable machine will spread to make way
for weight giving in
to assume so small a drop of the pin in the ocean
or to cannonball – fitting chamber of a gun,
swimming in a mess of no restrictions,
prepared, contained to carve deep
in the night writhing in with him
with no need of hands to break point.
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