Dark

cy-twombly-black
I.
I have begun to name and catalogue the different types of dark.
It helps.
Warm-dark, cave-dark, void-dark, womb-dark, sleep-dark,
Eros-dark, blank-dark, siege-dark,
and there is the anonymous dark that gets in your head
and behind your eyes and in your lungs and constricts your breathing;
curse-dark, which casts a heavy prolonged spell, a pall;
there is also lonely. Naming it doesn’t help, not in the same way.
II.
Gnashing, teething, bristling, ranting, raving—
all, in this momentary wreck, becomes black with tumult.
It is the dark I forgot to name.
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Dance

dance gustav
I get so sleepy
and restless
and roiled
and charged.
If only they knew
what they called world
was simply a clusterfuck
of particles
dreaming of dance partners.
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Arclight

rothko
Bidden by tatters, and gravity’s mutable arc, the palpitations guide me.
They are subtle, duly engaged, a milk-slow run of shivers.
Bracing the rim, I peer out of cavedark: everything is sudden,
color-soaked, a ferocious din and melt,
fringed shawls of plasma groped by wind.
My eyes struggle to adjust.
At first they all seem like vagrant stabs of light, undifferentiated,
and then comes the exact piercing, prayer of motherlight warming my lungs,
as if I’ve swallowed a blush.
I realize, with grave tenderness, that I am being born of this split,
the heir and progeny of absence.
Hers, his: a recursive lineage of fractures.
Ready or not, my history is formed, my destiny fixed—
I am a furious comeback waiting to happen.
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Deluge

jackson-pollock-paintings1

It is both pleasure, and an epitaph to pleasure,
at the same time.
When the phenomena occurs
and the colors run
and slash
and slit down upon me
in ravels of deluge.
Spring-green, shell-pink, sky-blue,
bled-red, egg-heaven, grief-yellow.
I, a perpetual guest
bearing witness
to my own seeds
and desires,
feel at home,
happy prey to a luminous gust,
when the colors cake
and blast through me.
It is then that I no longer fear dry clefted
hollows, or loud leveling booms.
It is lighted proof
that I am not forgotten.
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Pour

mushi shi

So much light
poured in,
so much
passive worth.
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Draft

maya deren
There are no mirrors here,
yet everywhere I see myself,
a bated draft of furls,
each bearing the right
to exist, and respire ably.
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Godot Vs. God

In Godot’s waiting room,
Heaven-rent,
the vacancy sign
had been converted into a living epitaph
for people choking on bated breath:
Here tomorrow,
gone today.
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Levitation

Excerpt from No Man’s Brooklyn, novel-in-progress.
   Anya and I were seated on the rubber mat in the front hallway.
   We had been playing marbles. Or rather our own version of marbles, which we called Marble Mash. After having bumped one of my marbles off the mat and into the corner, Anya squealed and riotously clapped her hands together. Direct hits always made her happy.
   I braced myself for her customary gloating, but it never came. The wattage on her face dimmed. Not to sad but to contemplative. She stared down at her bare knees, then up at me.
   I’m going to show you something, okay?
   Okay, I said.
   I’m-going-to-show-you-something was a trademark Anya-ism.
   She had shown me lots of things. One time it was a purplish bruise on her left arm that she never explained. One time it was a letter she claimed to have stolen from her teacher’s desk. One time it was a dead sparrow. One time it was her underwear.

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Sober Judge

Dylan Thomas falls
from his barstool in Heaven—
God, tending bar, picks him up,
turns to Job—Who am I to judge?
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Missive

Flown,
without feathers,
an unrelenting missive
engaging remote hints
and near heaven
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