different mutant subunits

different mutant subunits
there’s just no percentage in it
the dead us texts us: look out
look out look out look out
the spectral tapping of the
underside strains the circuit
what bears down holds up
the miasma chattering
again reminds us of the
last shoreline its beautiful
washout, its very final sand

 

 

 

 

Pony

horse on wheels ancient_greek_child's_Toy mod 2 bw

Flung out of orbit
at last we thought we’d live
like supernumeraries
as we pleased.

The gods that left us here
liked mirrored worlds and ice,
not the human world of
fires and tents and trees.

All that loud singing.

The galaxy they
wheeled away on
had vapor in it and
a voice that left behind
the muffled slap
our weary leather makes
as we go round the around,
the rag a little bully with a
whip made of our life when
no one was looking
the care-to-see.

But we do still love
the sound of water
waving in a metal pan,
our day’s allotment,
and the memory
of the sun we had.

Unmown grass.

Boundless sand.

______________________________
altered image; original image: http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/File:Little_horse_on_wheels_%28Ancient_greek_child%27s_Toy%29.jpg

Levee

noaa ms fld 1927 levee breach comprsd flpd

between you and
things you don’t want
to know
a monument
places you won’t go
losses
you don’t hope
to recover, people
you love who can
never return, people
who won’t love you or
you can’t love them
unless until
what’s broken
reconvenes
it won’t
nonetheless
you tend
the possibilities
with miraculous feats
and vanquishings
and other such
imagined scrims
it’s the same
no matter how you
line it up
best not move
as if anyway
you could oh
errant satellite
from up here
down there looks
static as if
that silver river
never moves it’s
still a planet of
postponed
collisions
not forgetting
harder than
remembering till
cuts and pinches
rocks and words
recall self to self
when you’re so
occupied there’s
only being
there’s still
a little place
to store yourself
like other creatures
artifacts of living
you can wait it out

_________________________
image: Mississippi River Flood 1927, NOAA, National Weather Service Collection:http://www.photolib.noaa.gov/htmls/wea00733.htm

Solitaire

what is hidden compels
this somber endeavor
life its randomness
the grind of it and chaos
the things you miss count
only once and losses
don’t incur despair, still
the universe blossoms
your options shrink
a sudden obsession:
emollients and adornments
the things you can’t remember
that you could have said
this outpost where your mind
makes a world

 

 

Crypt

For us not now philosophers’ distress
so elegant and rectified,
a cri de coeur in fortified undress,
missing all the loss we find

as our former selves pass by,
thick with others’ thoughts and words.
Still, to say a true thing that will belie
our dark surmise that in this world

meaning is not in doing or what’s done–
wind shuddering the trees,
some turbulence, and then it’s gone.

 

 

 

Maps

Our first maps are just abstract things:
we center what we know while nether regions
fall off edges, or countries of imagination,
blown out of all proportion, squat
invitingly unlimned, cramped in blank corners
populated with cities of monsters or mothers.

Later but still early on
uncharted territories occupy our minds
while we are caught in well-known grids
merely travelling on a dirty cross-town bus
or maybe driving late at night, alone,
not going anywhere, just not going home.

And later still, when ordinary life
has permanently locked its lock,
our dreams are full of fascinating
trips through stygian regions
where other people like the ones we know
are crucified or slowly roasted on the shores

of heaving rivers while we glide cautiously past
in makeshift boats paddled by guides who say,
“Don’t look now, Dreamer:
that will never happen to you.”
Then we discover it has already happened to us
in heartbreaking in and outside ways.

Finally we find ourselves pointblank
living lives we thought we’d never live
and where we really are is where we’re lost
as if another had mapped our lives instead of us.
Usurped by this strange self, we try hard to believe
that what we really are is unsurveyed.