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“Concerning Some Recent Criticism of His Work
—Glaze and shimmer,
luster and gleam;
can’t he think of anything
but all that sheen?
—No such thing,
the queen said,
as too many sequins.”
― Sweet Machine
—Glaze and shimmer,
luster and gleam;
can’t he think of anything
but all that sheen?
—No such thing,
the queen said,
as too many sequins.”
― Sweet Machine
“What saves and ruins?
(The museum)
What blooms amongst the rocks?
(A ship)
What opens wide and explains why?
(A burning window)
What is ill-advised in the new world?
(What ends at the treeline.
What split like a lip into two less viable possibilities.)
What shimmers on our bodies when we are warm?
(Our historic burning) What lines both the inside of our coats
and the inside of our mouths?
(Our current burning)
What is the real museum?
What is wet and is yet a wick?
(The tongue, which becomes colorless over time.
Which flakes.)”
―
(The museum)
What blooms amongst the rocks?
(A ship)
What opens wide and explains why?
(A burning window)
What is ill-advised in the new world?
(What ends at the treeline.
What split like a lip into two less viable possibilities.)
What shimmers on our bodies when we are warm?
(Our historic burning) What lines both the inside of our coats
and the inside of our mouths?
(Our current burning)
What is the real museum?
What is wet and is yet a wick?
(The tongue, which becomes colorless over time.
Which flakes.)”
―
“When I was young, I hid under the porch with a star in my throat.
When I got a little older, my mother opened the cupboard to let the fire out.
...
I believe the stories got wet and began to bleed together.
I believe we built the sides of the town too high and the events kept rolling back.
I didn’t know that the water was going to keep rising as well,
but if you have any say in the matter, while the boats go down,
I’d like to be on a ladder,
peeking into a loft made narcotic with children,
a dead pool with rolling, living waves. If possible,
I’d like the water to douse the match that’s growing out of the bones of my hand.”
―
When I got a little older, my mother opened the cupboard to let the fire out.
...
I believe the stories got wet and began to bleed together.
I believe we built the sides of the town too high and the events kept rolling back.
I didn’t know that the water was going to keep rising as well,
but if you have any say in the matter, while the boats go down,
I’d like to be on a ladder,
peeking into a loft made narcotic with children,
a dead pool with rolling, living waves. If possible,
I’d like the water to douse the match that’s growing out of the bones of my hand.”
―
“The days are nouns: touch them
The hands are churches that worship the world”
― Words Under the Words: Selected Poems
The hands are churches that worship the world”
― Words Under the Words: Selected Poems
“The Fire
When a human is asked about a particular fire,
she comes close:
then it is too hot,
so she turns her face—
and that’s when the forest of her bearable life appears,
always on the other side of the fire. The fire
she’s been asked to tell the story of,
she has to turn from it, so the story you hear
is that of pines and twitching leaves
and how her body is like neither—
all the while there is a fire
at her back
which she feels in fine detail,
as if the flame were a dremel
and her back its etching glass.
You will not know all about the fire
simply because you asked.
When she speaks of the forest
this is what she is teaching you,
you who thought you were her master.”
― Blood Lyrics: Poems
When a human is asked about a particular fire,
she comes close:
then it is too hot,
so she turns her face—
and that’s when the forest of her bearable life appears,
always on the other side of the fire. The fire
she’s been asked to tell the story of,
she has to turn from it, so the story you hear
is that of pines and twitching leaves
and how her body is like neither—
all the while there is a fire
at her back
which she feels in fine detail,
as if the flame were a dremel
and her back its etching glass.
You will not know all about the fire
simply because you asked.
When she speaks of the forest
this is what she is teaching you,
you who thought you were her master.”
― Blood Lyrics: Poems
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