noon's loomsnoon's loomsstring loose taut bones,and set fire to the stonesin the street's roofless rooms.noon's loomsspin nuclear & worn,and blare their bloated hornsover clear, lazy fumes―trees are opening the palms of their hands,with their lines of fateborne low with the waiting leaves' weight,& drawn on the noon-air's sand.birds are screaming and surprise themselveswith their leaps & caresses & fights;their wings are still much too bright,and the winds are collapsing shelves.men in the road are all clear as glass,worn through & see-through, with wine in their lungs.their bloated arms are rusting gunsand the dreams that they dream are gas.noon's loomstidy up their strings & their lamps,and the routes on their clerical, spherical mapscurve off... tomorrow to a fierce, dull bloom.
fire, or waterwere this blurred, we'd be submerged,stuck under the waveswith warping colours & corals falling awayfrom a certain blue surface, where white animals are climbing. hot & cold climb the same ladder into the eye and we see everything sharper:today there are sky-flags, halfway tattered.browns & sea-thinned greens, then reds & great flamesare traditionalbut the starving stag, steaming in the cracked courtyardsays blue is autumn's secret favourite, the colour of bruise & ozone & iris.a leaf can fall like a cracked mast, or a dead bird meant for the groundwhere the plummet loves death's rest; or simply a painted sailthat dispels the break of landlocked bone& breaks the windy hierarchy of leaves ― a mess of fire, or water.but this wading one-hand-clap falls like a berrytoo ripe to maintain the gripof its slim stalk limb, here it cannot echo or be poisonous.the hol
MatchmakingFor her the summer days are long. She is small and sweet, a cube of caramel with an aching aftertaste that lingers for ending too soon. Her arms and legs are pliable as grass, and as grass she swells like a sea with the wind saturating her hair. She is one of the movers who cannot dance, but were meant to, from a tight core low in the abdomen; and she walks the sidewalk on the diagonal, a magnet pulled to a dimly lit room with the bhh-bhh-bhh of good hip-swaying rock 'n roll.He rides the subway at night, beats rhymes into the stretched skin of the drum. He is an eagle fledgling, long-haired and brown eyed. His pants are red and he sits on the ground, tapping to the chug of the engine-- the drum is the engine. The next stop is his; for the rest of the ride, the train vainly echoes his rhythms, before stumbling upon a screech and twisting the pulse to abstraction. Until tomorrow it waits for him, to unkink its music.They could love each other easily-- as much as flame
HerstoryShe has a mouth on her,that woman down the streetwith the magpie eyesand the skin that shrinks away from touch.She's a firework,that woman with the ramrod spine:she says she doesn't need a manand two joined hands at the altarare two hands wrapped in chains.They murmur about her,those women up the road -in the grocery, at the bank -painting whispered targets on her turned back.They are caged birds, she says:silent slaves in their own homestucking helpless husbands into bedand wiping liquor-stained kissesfrom their lips.She lives outside of their boxes,that woman with warnings splashed over her skin.She lives strangely, gloriously.Deliciously.Her skin is her own;her words belong to her own lips.Much better, she thinks, to rule alonethan to hide meekly behind a man;much better to be a rocket, a supernova,a voice cutting through the chaos and the chainslike a meteorblazing through the heavy dark.
The Particular Sadness of Pomegranate Seeds IVBegrudgingly he closed Persephone’s door. He did not wish to part with her, but he knew it was too soon. He longed for the days when they would whisper sweet nothings to each other as their bodies entwined, their limbs inseparable and indistinguishable from each other. One day they would participate in such endeavors.“Hades, who is that girl?” Hecate approached him as he locked Persephone’s door, taking one last moment to linger in future memories yet to be made. “Persephone, I brought her here to marry me.” She was just as he imagined: full of life and love. She was always dancing, joyously, with her multitude of flowers and trees bowing to her. The sunlight, all at once, radiated from her skin as she absorbed it. He could not picture a woman more suited to his tastes and desires than she. She would be his goddess. She would bring life to the Underworld. She would all at once rule over death and life—with him at her side. He would know