paper trail (getting another degree in the arts & (humanities))

trial

a leading inclination where meadows split diverge and bulge outside compass crosses

the threaded links bare-- simply put
they are not there
the fit is not tight security is not tight our coupling is not tight

cradled in the shaft of a large machine
droning
i cannot see my face
(fate) is a mystery beyond

intellect is without a weapon in this world where prayer becomes--
(a new stirring of self(hope) though god has no grip on her cliffs

trusting to difficult directions she dances across the stage towards a pole planted firm--
it is hers to hold slide glide around
loose structure and the study of women
the study of american history which is part of world history and now earth history

behind her sky paper patterns collide--
remnant of the undefined
the finite torture of signature

a small restaurant unlike memphis (a bad andy warhol film)

inhale pink oxygen
where drinks like fire run down curtains ---- throat ---- lungs

where dismal hope exists ever-always reaching
beyond shaking means ---- torpid steps ---- tepid conversation

the couch is covered in faux fur ---- the floors creek ---- groaning-
ages spent lying in the best of moods glass in hand
the peopled rooms speak of hideous efforts (masks in place greeting fake face)

affront to quiet nature
affront to Warhol
affront to the very circle of familiarity

we languish in removed connect

quiet months pass where nothing curtains our view
yet still ---- we are unable to move

building history a nest (or an explaination) part 1

building a nest out of found parts

of a sort shunned by most while this nest

t e e t e r s on withered storm drains
where even the most violent
screams of nature are funneled

antediluvian promises curving away from sky

angry black night hard light billows prophecy
the gutteral scream of receding oxygen
fleeting memory and savage wings

still this loose grip holds—thin as sleet and venerable pages

nest building 1

soul crawling backwards
finds a nest
doesn't care which fits best

***

was it puerile to think love would work
insensate forces fester barring teeth and breaking sound

the burden is too great for our solution mingled in dissolution and solace
found in boxes taped with age hidden in the attic
where this withering mind resides
lofty in past crimes

how do we get out of here
this place of prices paid
yearning rage (not wage) earned

by stretching muscles lengthwise (she said


peering peering peering into past reprise (no amount of make up can hide

how come you never told me this meant so much
to young sick hearts living in icing suffocating sense

we didn’t have enough scars or wrinkles for our souls--
they found us before we were ready

without defense shedding tightening skin wrapping around taunt lungs looking looking looking
for ---absolution

swayed back by thin air memory and hot fortunes

a quick sketch

crack me open

i'll never be 

the sultry poet 

that i want to be--

the distant figure 

in the tunnel will never be the muse--

my muse--

oh but their sound is wonderful

full of strings long

and thick

though it be i swore 

never to send another short lined letter to missing muse--

except

eyes tight and closed  double-over

time folds velvet over itself

pretending to be female male then female again

the perfect sex forms

made inner connects--

the ocean is in the air our tears hot summer setting

afterwards 

when light has left and feeling is gone

     the past will spread out 

like sheets on a line

reflecting sun tarnish

reflecting memorybirds

scent

and touch

am i talking to mySelf

no comment

reflection or infliction

in a dream
i am walking
and I cannot see my face

even though
i am outside of my self
not really my self
but something constructed
inward pushing out
sitting
in a car
on the other side of the road
i am watching myself

looking at my self walking

though i cannot see my face