the iceberg sinks a little in the spring...

the iceberg sinks a little in the spring

when the pale blue horizon recedes through

my thumbs I feel snaps in my tendons a wand

of ink fountains a fist dissolves wire

dissolves satellites back of our ears

heavy stench of our animal oils

nude to the waist with the sun going down

and the iceberg starting to silhouette rise

it's cold in here but I love when it melts

when the hot dry lips of a spring summer day

find the ice and it burns beyond heat like a

bomb like the radiant plosions I play in my

brain have you noticed?

the lump

             has gone from my throat

and moved to the base of my skull

 

archaeology of self

In the Rosetta stone of your face

I find the divet, the unexplained

and inexplicable crater that

prevents further translation

you will not allow my fingers

and shy away gripping

your lips like a cat flicking

its ears, tail lashing

I have invaded you

now a little to forget

the gaping excavation

of my self-cleaning sewer

from which life surges forth

microscopic and sweet

seizing us by the throats and

dragging us into the mines

from whence these layers of dust

silt over the everyday surface

dance at my wedding

cry at my funeral

be on my team for

a thousand years

come prowl the range

with your divet face

the range of my

sunken mountains

detritus of self

the valorizing alcohol

clears the slide for micron managed

view of the seas of agony
or guilt inherited like tax

grandmother was an orphan

all the loneliness of paper

shuffled around in cascading files

sticking by me everywhere I live

don't move it, leave it where it is
a child's remembrance casting back

to grandmother as ancient goddess

moving the treadle and thread

so have pity on the owners

of these buildings and the dead

earth under foundations fragile

balconies looming

over the head

of the landlord

unable

to enjoy

the storm

resting internally the blue fight

resting internally the blue fight
skims over morning altitudes

the blue fight reveals an obscene

scar down the face of the internal city

where ghosts scour the benches of lingerers

raise up their glasses full of tears

salty the tears as they pump through the eyes

roll down the throat to the collarbone

so many tears from the internal city

blushing and baffled the metallic taste

from so much regret as the absence of loss

loss of a loss how can one lament

such a thing even if internal manhole

covers sail off powered always by tears

and rooftops shake with hairline fractures

I need you to hold my hand now