places: in the city of lost things

when did my world become so small--
or why did it not expand as i expanded?

where do i go to find a more infinite
space, somewhere where the form of me
has room to breathe, is less expected--

is less what i expect?

my fear is gigantic, is bigger even
than my catamaran of a body
sailing on its bed of rain

afraid of any random noise.


we were whirling in and out
of the figures of a dance
in which i was your silent partner.
the rhythm that drove me apart from you
as much held me to you--

it was as strong as fingers
against the lip--it was
like icicles on the inner thigh.

you were my cold thing,
golden icicle god.

i'm wandering things you planed
and am becoming the action
of reaching
to touch the scattered things.
the charred things i watch break in my fingerhold.
the feathered things have played dead
for some time now--their heads are huddled beneath their own cold wings.
there is dental work that must be done in this your stark temple, scars on the columns.

it's a city that was broken down by your wind and rain, o god, hey ho.
the wrath of your divine force.  nobody can touch the land no more.  nobody can touch the land.


i wandered the streets mocking its remains with my pity, the burned-out things,
mohammedan back-alley angels in silhouette became to me
silky objects in a night sky of terror that was the manifestation of the action of my own wandering.
against me the trickling moon shone, i felt its fingers on my face--cry out i cried to the unliving things
cry out o ye sinners of the plain
cry out upon the destruction of your god--see ye what your god hath wrought with his hands
plucking the dusk like grapes, plucking the liquor from out of the vine
by way of the heaviness of its muscat fruit pouring your half-light down his throat
like it were a golden wine.

o my lord for wherefore did you twine your vine about the faded building with its spire dead in the day and night
like the splintered branch of a tree in the day and night spearing the divide between dark and light
my lord wherefore did you sire this honey, this sweet golden honey, if not for your own mouth and throat
wax in the comb
my lord, my lord,
wax in the comb
chicken bone

hair like a beet root

and eyes so fine

they might as well
have been mine.


i can't do anything but turn rage into music--i don't know how
to sit immobile in my rage like a child
in bathwater gone cold--i don't know
how
to witness.

i just know how
to wander.
tethered to a singularity like a dog on a leash.