Poetry Archives Bio
February 19, 2019
5:22 PM
Thought outspoken is a lie...

This is my translation of an excerpt from «Silentium!» by Фёдор Тютчев [Fëdor Tiutchev].

To Jon Kertzer

How can the heart itself express,
Into another ear confess
The means by which live you or die?
Thought outspoken is a lie;
You blast the earth and vex the source
—Now silence keep—and slake your thirst.

January 29, 2019
12:53 PM
After Alexis

The light outside is power,
But the trees, they do not move.
Inside the house, dust settles
In each fine groove of the floor,
And outside the trunks, still,
Mark the passage of an hour.

January 20, 2019
11:38 AM
chantage et autres divertissements

i like the sparkles in her eyes
somewhere it snows
and everything  it has an eve

i lead a littoral existence
always on the cusp of hell
with never a reprieve

both types of creature
are a raging beast  at least
we recognize the features

between erotic sneezes
into palms  we try to holler "fire!
to come faster

to be each other's dog
we first (before we thirst
must recognize our master

her thighs is how he dies
the fishnet principle dictates
there was a man who had a plan

there was a man who turned his piss to wine
there was a man who wished to kill himself
there was a man who felt quite absolutely fine

there's a transition missing here
the embrasure of her embrace
the dedication to my mother

a pomegranate shrapnels in the eye
and one knife grants its parturition to another
someday someone will find the key to this

my notes  the screws I dropped behind the cabinet
there'll be no countdown to the moment
no revelation to be hand in fingers

rounded perfectly  we dance
without so much an inkling of a comment
she walks from hall to hall

observing the exhibits with a frown
a yellow line is painted on the ground
(you mustn't come much closer

she walks around the box of glass
her task  observing the cornered tusk
so beautiful and tangible  not changeable

not fungible  when you come home
don't take your shoes off (it is Kristallnacht
the food is on the table  if you eat

please add the herbs and half the cheese
(the highest shelf is where things freeze
and if you don't—

January 6, 2019
9:13 PM
inconvenience store

I haven't slept in a fortnight
you have memories
to look back on today

it's seven thirty
I shamble to the mirror
you're long gone

my hair has curled
because I'd ate you raw
the night before

my day proceeds in fits
(the beat is restless
'til it comes for you—

quadriga racing next to which
men on a grecian urn
dance and fuck in the arse

what can you do
they're happy
that is all

anatomy's no match for poetry
and so  i yearn to counterfill
your face with flattery  and here

our backs are asymptotes
as we lie  forgive each other
a mutual madneſs

when i feel "sad
i take much phrenological delight
in the broadest part of your proboscis

you read my poems literally
then ask for exegesis
which is when the I remains

while i depart
       trick or treat! smell my farts!
 —inscribe your own destruction in your art

December 8, 2018
9:33 PM
ministry of absorption

"treat me like a first edition  she tells me
my thoughts are scattering like frightened mice
and on my way downstairs i note

the roses are depressed again
it's time to take them to the vet
and put them out to pasture

across the table long in the great hall
we toast to ruining each other's life
we ask  "can we finish the kitchen first
        —"can we finish the kissing first

somewhere not too far  a cop
hides in the bushes with his violation stick
how many will he bugger here

meanwhile  we sniff each other's butts
(yours smells of gold and daffodils
mine of blood and ink

later still we dream  you are become
a white mare on a heath with spotted foals
in tow  I am a beagle on a leash

and now I am a sisiphus of sorts
only with mop instead of mohammedan rock
and so I clean the floor  you strike a pose

while i  three legs ashiver
blighted and halfblind
observe the opening of petals

there are musical marks for fractions of silence
but i awake and I am not a dog  instead
when my wife goes to sleep  i settle the accounts

November 2, 2018
9:40 AM

To Błażej Krukowski

She came into the mudroom with the face of earth.
My burnished angel, back from a day of spinning pain into gold,
Her face as black as a chimneysweep's.

She reached out her arms towards me, and I came.
And I grabbed her ass playfully.
And I asked her about her day.
And she told me.

And I said, "I have to pack up to go to Vancouver."
And she said, "But what about—"
And she made a gesture about her nethers.

And I took my hand and I led her to the downstairs suite,
As the painters upstairs painted,
And I stuck my tongue in her cunt
Which tasted like napalm and vinegar.

And I licked her moist clit, not easily coaxed,
And I licked her lips with delight.
And I put in a finger.

And I pulled it out slightly, so she'd want it more.
And, sure enough, she said, "Two fingers,"
As if she were ordering a drink.

So I put in two fingers,
And she reached out her arms towards me, and she came.
And she buried my face in her nethers.

Like only I would permit her,
Like she was killing me with her joy.
And I chose love over breathing
For a moment. And I lived.

And then I got up and asked, "Who wants to get fucked?"
And I put myself in her mouth,
Like only she would permit me,
And she sucked.

But I wanted it too much,
And she still wanted to get fucked,
(Not get some rough and ready Dasein in her Weltanschuung).

So I took myself out of her mouth
And I put myself in her cunt.
And it didn't work.
I got soft. And I sulked.

But she kissed me.
And I kissed her back.
And I took the ferry off to Vancouver.
The fifth of sixth time that week.

August 13, 2018
6:33 AM
after frost

Whose woods these are I know too well.
Her house is in the forest dell;
She will not watch me strain, deranged,
To make her woods fill up with swell.

Her little dog must think it strange
To see us thusly here arranged
Between the sheets and blankets, tranced,
The longest morning sits unchanged.

She makes a little song and dance
To ask for food by any chance.
The only other sound's the bake
Of bagels in the stove, askance.

Her bed is narrow, soft an ache,
But I have promises to break,
And hours to go before I wake,
And hours to go before I wake.

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