wolf (erasure)

The distance is illusory, certain, quiet.
It takes you secret, selfish, connecting.
Foolish nothing:  fools laugh of sugar and knowing.
Curel naivete, unfair knowing.
Embedded and phantom, balloon.
My younger self is illusory.
Look, dear, it is impossible to see.
Clumsily.
We sip cool water to do something.
To say nothing.
This latent heat in a gesture.
We are, presently, exhausted.

Virginia Woolf talks about love

http://ahorsenamedfroufrou.blogspot.com/2010/07/virginia-woolf-talks-about-love.html

throat [erasure]

I open, I want

to issue from my mouth

like a scent

memory to a nostril

I think, I build

silent mountains from air;

[draw] water from oceans

of [cellophane]

[facsimile]

I coat my throat

with honey, aching

with gravel and hurt

babbling [clay] proxy

homonculous:

[which language do you speak?

[do you speak to me]

rest, rest

[I shed, I cloud

[over gray overcast

[fishing for affection,

[frothing and aware]

gullet

coating my throat with honey

after shouting across the canyon

you find a small instance of gravel

in the viscous

in the fire

in the tooth you extract

with your bare knuckles

like mussels you open

sweet meat, organ

in broth you sop with a crust

and you wonder why

you, the magic babbling inventor

did not tie a tin can to a string

to my ear to my mouth to

stretch across the canyon

I shouted across the canyon

on a string

The Bull

Come at me.
Silly man in sequined trousers.
You stand over there, prance around, talk your complex words,
taking your uprightness, your bipedal bounce for convention, regarding it as superiority.

Come at me.
I'll be the king of your circle of dirt. Wave around your stupid cape.
I want to rip your ass to shreds do not discount me don't you dare.
I do not dare to eat you, for I am an herbivore, but I will stamp you to a mash with these hooves.
Fuck you.

Your friends are fags.
Come at me, coward!
Do you need to signal the path to my brain with little tusks?
Pull out your stupid little epee and brandish it with your prissy hand.
I'm tired but I'm not dead.

Your puntillero will get the last bits of me. I will breathe my curse into his face. He will dream of my gore tonight, and my meat will feed hungry men.
Hooray for your triumph over this beast. This is my last paseo.
Ole, motherfucker.

the shipwreck and the beachcomber

I will be the shipwreck if you will be the beachcomber
who, bewildered, would pick up the wood
blown onto the beach
and see gemstones and gold coins
and bottles of dried exotic herbs
and place them in your pocket,
unsure of their names but understanding their value
as "precious" or "special"
as I sit, shipwrecked, under the surface
spilling my glut into open water
several miles out.

Every day you collect the wood
from my shipwreck,
placing the plank fragments the wire basket
in the crook of your arm and stacking
only as much as you can carry in one trip
only as much as you need for a night.

The treasures you find find their way
onto your windowsill, peering out at the seafoam
or peering in at you as you peer through the gem
translucence, seeing yourself reflected in the facets.

You burn the wood
in your wood burning stove
and you curl around the fire you make
with your afghan around you at night.

Fish populate me.

The warmonger and the beast of burden having a battle of wills

I will eat the sun.
I will eat the sun and the moon.
I will eat the sun and the moon and all of my grandchildren.