Tuesday, April 30, 2019

Monday, April 29, 2019

Sunday, April 28, 2019

Friday, April 19, 2019


Antonia   Antigone your   moan be a koan   a keeping sphere or    natal occlusion and country  

numbed    blooming        alloy from scream   to mumble hip hope    of the only authentic ones      

Catatonia    my tongue      is slipping down     my throat as the    serpent lips in my spine       

which    is choking    too into the arrow   note green note la   lutta intoned against coaxed  honor

there    were no    words on   there that   body hadn’t articulated        when it said bending in every    

endlessly    sturdy austerity    ecstatic you   won’t  need  those chains      

Speechlessness     the place where thought   collects like a hive   and hides in like effort   in the
   force of grace

Is     the other   side of  the scream      at the primal scene      swaying not yet saying       no         which hums        like undeserved      offering not yet  saying indeed            which     lies

like     yesterday      same as saying   nothing is so     alive I’m a music       Maafa a muse in her

Atavistic   visceral  hold up    that’s the girl’s     name a silent    killing some strange voyeur     

Yearning          for herself who    she is strangling

Sunday, April 14, 2019

Maafa's Lariat

We are gardeners and daughters of gardeners and we twist proudly      leisure is replacing ritual and I’m not sure if its    about evolution or the barren land but I can hear    myself think again and certain that the empire is temporary      I’m touching the public soil with bare hands and rehearing the     nearness bashful as a fold rehearsing the clearing to be sure we   neglected the necks of noon the next things and talked over them in     radio took a dose messianic unknowns and wondered at the nommo which somewhere    else is infinitive for ‘to make one drink’ I am making one drink in the gallop toward     garden relearning Gunther and thread spun to arrow where tapestry becomes bondage in the very language      you are wearing the close word and in its charge it multiplies together we defy the whole     swamp this way shedding the dissociative brackets for the path from sheath to strangle to black angel and   in our charge it rains so hard all the ducks drown slow There’s always a brighter downfall ripe for    celebrating we are gardeners and daughters of gardeners and we root proudly knowing plants to be the    reborn saints rehearng their hue as a row of muted sun while a hawk holds a ribbon up to the untransmuted energy     Remains keep coming and we glove and store the ruins as if some mummies made new There is something alive on me      if you come now you will hear it humming if you leave low it will let you know: the view of the dead slave in the beautiful apartment with its bright walls and vast proportions is criminal, is war     is this the code   to the garden’s    gate this looking in   and naming this is   the code to the garden’s   gate! And the raised dead   move like the breaking of silence      and since I didn’t say the shattering they      move in a ritual of twitching tones and atonement       drinks itself a chalk sky a talkie treating the   banality of horror like a rival smiling fiend to pry    the catatone off its throat these are our seeds     what seeds are these?

Thursday, April 11, 2019

Thursday, April 4, 2019