Museum. Utter me as wind
with mouth-*****. Consent
to it as deer in headlights, smacked
all up on the floor, smacked
give me some more. Head
-crash gorgeous a finish. Love.

Drink we me! Regale me
with song! Breathily
transform me as seed
and meter. Ruin me
as ancient crumbling
tower. Marble. Pose
in certain frame and
snap and post as private
adventure. Swallow.

Wherein the body is dead
and the mind floats for asylum,
what do the loud knocks expect
upon the door and what shall
the skull
do with such reverberations?

I will always remember you, your
blood just happened there
and my mind was you
all along.

     Have me before
     they take you before
     your black is washed
     away again by histories
     and before the moon
     buries you
     in the nomad opening
     of my tap
     song swallowed
     exquisite and clear
     along my throat. Have me before
     the seasons end and the next
     golden man on screen says
     we must secure our borders
     and soon, instead
     of turning your boats
     away, they will fire
     bold gunpowders, as if
     in another grand campaign
     of their castles
     and silver.

Wherein your mind floats
away and all that is left
of your vanishings is a body:

I will not know what to do with that
but hope for the flood to take us all, arkless.

Leaving is such a terrible thing. 'To do',
but 'we did' is the specific. Magic
floundering into pale paper. Here
we are.
In the end our only violence is dumb. We could not
know each other as much as I thought. We would not
do the things that they do in the movies. We did not
hold each other in such ways with sparkling angles. The good
camera and smart sounds from our mouths, written. Carefully
in such scenes the music would play as if to imply. Beauty
is something else for us and it did not look like that.

Everything is amenable to a pen--
so nevermind this sudden splash of water
on this page, nevermind it all, it is
something I ought to have been able to make
for myself back home-- if I so desired it,
and finally, I'm glad that I no longer did:

You see,

travelling is a game for me. It is no
urgency, no need. When I was younger
how many times was I told that: it would be
this way? By teachers and others and televisions
that to leave home
would be the great mattering;

Let me remind you of the Acacia trees!

Nevermind this sea! And its constant blueness,
their imports of me and those who looked
like me; then their denails of me and
those that look like me when finally
the depature of their self-righteousness

A funny thought:

In RPGS they're NPCS:
In role-playing games they are
non-playable characters:

when you walk your character
to them and give a little click
upon them they might talk and say
something of their


                                     lives

the question is, is what happens
after you switch off the video game
console. Are they always frozen
in their space in that time or is it
that the need for you to journey
keeps everybody so still in your head
that you forget that they too have

                                      lives

When I return      I touch the soil
    I used to think so much of the sky     the soil
in my hands how much thirst is there
    I could clutch it and save us all

                     the rain

might spill out of my grandmother's mouth
    if she strains her wheat-dry hands
long enough of all the liquid     blessings
of the church she crossed      again and again
    and the holiness would clear my grandfather's

                   eyes and

                   the rain

would spill out. I travel much
through skies thinking of the soil
the soil looks like earth clay mud
red rock heart
brown stone
cool coal mould
dark black hiding cavity gold
water sold concrete brick houses                            
                    acacia trees
the soil it looks like          me

and the things that made me:

I cannot take you seriously america

what are your bullets supposed to do to me?

And europe?

Your columns? They lean!

      much unlike my grandfather's back.

Have you see the man handle a *****?
     The shovelling he could do? The cows
and goats he can end? The snakes
      that fear him? These are my hands.

Imagine the thought that this soil is not
enough.
      Look at my hands. Look.

                                    What do you perceive?

I see everything. All at once and never.
     And still it is yet

                to rain.

Scale me.

Certain fish, chosen
to this pixel colossus,
what will you say if
I ask you to be near
me, and your blood is
drained clean from bone.