We stopped to build horses
made out of bone
whispered in their ears
to teach them speech
rode them through the night
along Indian trails and fire bush
arriving to the horizon by sunrise.
The stranger’s car
drives so sleek and fast
like a living thing
one hand on the wheel
his other hand on the things I made
the creatures that put their faith in me.
This is so much better, I tell myself,
not to live by my own accordance
but to have the road laid out for me
to have the driver driving me.
A coy motherfucker
stands up in the audience
and wags his finger,
so she hits the panic button
unleashing the dogs
to eat him up.
He tickles and shouts,
but they chew him away,
tearing joints and cartilage.
She continues the performance,
a little startled,
the crowd settles.
For act two,
she saws the memory in half
as if it never happened,
into the darkness,
where the spotlight can’t catch her.
The body drifted
God knows for how long
And when it bumped against the rocks
It bleed again
The man wakes
And looks over the damage done
The slight discomfort in the lungs
Where the ribs are held up together
As if they never grew larger with age
Two wounds became a scar
A clever reminder
Like a sound that returns you back to school
Days chasing girls into the bathrooms
And so the man sets his body back into the water
The sea that Alexander made
The same waters they later buried him in
Set it all on fire again
As the body bumps into the rocks.
She causes a ruckus,
stirring the loose parts awake.
I thought we were playing touch,
when in fact we were playing tackle.
Rolling down the ruined hill,
past a tree once the color of God,
she stops and pulls me upright,
only to break my collar.
She makes a sound on my wrists like this:
‘thack, thack, thack’,
and mends me back together.
As a man, the loose parts fall sometimes,
bones out of their sockets,
then I remember:
she pulled me upright, close by,
only to break my collar.
a documentary directed by Lucien Castaing-Taylor & Verena Paravel
I’ve been meaning to watch this documentary for a while after reading about it in the New York Times. It’s a unique cinematic experience, one I should have seen in the theater. So strange, so difficult to forget. I don’t know if it’s fair to recommend it, as I know with very little story to hold on to, the visuals and sounds will probably put most to sleep. But if you’re a bit of a filmmaking geek, you might want to catch this oddity.
along the forever sea.
Shift it into neutral,
allow it to slide over,
setting the beast free again.
When you go under,
the children dive down,
to catch you,
but you refuse their fingers.
So you sink,
the dead things,
my first things.
Oh, this color!
her flesh, as her dress hikes up,
now I have seen the stars,
how they bow and spin,
until they stop.
The locusts will take us away,
eating one bone by one bone,
until all that’s left are our jaws,
teeth holding on for dear life,
as the sky watches on.
Hands to face,
hold the boy,
lest he fall away,
like all my sons have,
they found their escape,
bedrooms to the outside -
the world kills all men,
the world destroys all things.
We dug up bones along the shore,
carrying them in buckets back home,
memories of the sea.
Built a treehouse in the sycamore,
four walls painted blue,
and in winter we stayed close for warmth.
Downstairs the world spins on,
the girls in their dresses,
and I will dance with them,
with a pocket full of the sea,
she whispers, “I will grow up to be an empire,
and I’ll let you conquer me . . . but only if you want to?”
wrestling childhood foes.
We played superheroes,
one crushing the other.
We watched from the forest’s edge,
the Iroquois, setting fire to it all,
their bodies were half man / half king.
No need for rifles
with speed like their’s,
but with knives you can stab Caesar,
because if you erase a god
you can create one of your own -
or so we were told.
When the embers settled,
we wiped the blades clean against our jeans,
hid the body next to his sons,
under burnt offerings of branches and leaves.
watching her in the mirror,
her eyes, her lips,
lights a cigarette,
while the radio prays for Jesus.
She slides over to the passenger side,
watches the ocean,
the white waves pass by,
‘Must be winter’, she says.
‘Most of the time it is’, I reply.