the zenith
the channels of the television sky
the nadir
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ANODE -|- elsewhere -|- [poetry] static -|- the television sky -|- waterproject 1998 -|- aurora -|- [fiction] -|- intimations of geography

05. The Winnowing (hexadecimal)
8. Tilling
Plow me under with your words, sharp as paper
and solid as space-age plastics.


3. Paths

What you want is the motion,
the rusted needles pinching into
my fallen-asleep mind. As I struggle for wakefulness,
I need you to pull me along your route,
into the turbid and sodden chaos
that seethes inside your boarded and splintered windows;
your filth-brown eyes.


B. Arcs

Flickers of light over the edges of
tincan metal and breath
held tight like an old worn babydoll.
You speak to me in the vibration
of three hundred cc's of internal combustion,
and deny the voice of my fear.


1. Calendars

Timelines and charts filled with names and pages
and pages and pages and pages
of meaningless numbers will drain me away,
will draw the blood from my veins,
and the vigor from my body,
leaving me cold and useless
as gristle. But you will chew
the sinew and the bone, extracting
the marrow, the last vestiges of myself,
slipping your conical canines
into my arteries, sucking out
the clotted mass of memory.


E. Archival

Retrieve these promises and the lies
which I believed
and the whispered oaths of true love,
that you may lavish them upon another.


7. Carapace

My flesh hardened, and my mind became
exoskeletal, and your teeth, pure as the driven
snow are my path and my protection. Smile for me
once, that I may know your hope for me, that I may know
the silken touch of a metaphysical breeze
washing through my eyes.


C. Lights

A faint lavender glow envelops me here, the memory
burning my tongue like the words I've lied to you.

Your prayers may be enough to retain me,
perhaps even enough to detain me

indefinitely, if not for the shallow breathing pattern
of your quick-timed choppy speech, muttering
Our Father,
whose art is heaven,
hollow be my name.
Give me that which I seek,
and bestow upon me
the filth that I long so to wallow in...


A.

You support yourself with an external casing
of lightweight carbon-metal alloys,
letting it pull you along on an old motorcycle,
art-deco green with a tincan sidecar,
proximate to a night stained beach (beyond your field of
    vision,
but you know it is there, just the same),
your border of flowing crashing blue-gray satin
meeting the shore of black iron filings
meeting the nadir of the shadow-chromed sky.


5. Shade

Your exhausted hands pull me over the edge
from one microscopically and infinitesimally different purpose
to another.


2. Prayer

In the space of the reel, filmed over
with the breath of the lotus flowers,
with the scent of sleep itself, pulling
distortions into memories,
you, my dreams and my vitality
will call into the darting eyes and jarring mind
a hope and a promise and a bargain
for what you want from me.


D. Contents

Within these words are your own undoing,
the running rushing along in the fabled waters
of feigned normalcy and the tight quivering
muscles of your legs, straining against the current.


6. Sculptures

You pulled me from the lie that surrounded me,
and bore me into what you named to be truth
(a defenseless position from the standpoint of ridicule),
cleaving away the falsehood and bringing me to light,
but you are no god, and your power over me
was my own foolish choice. A body, skinless
(but all that is true of someone is their mind
and their heart, you said), is open to infection.


4. Channels

Inside the arteries of the rusted soul,
windowless and sane, flows a tide
with a torrent of words and dried leaves,
gone brown like your eyes and brittle like your exhausted
    hands.


9. Rotate

The stylus of simple breath
and the wide flung cliffs of solid things
were anathema to you,
as your arms reached out,
and just a little back,
to grasp with a full body embrace
things as intangible as higher and lower.
Force me, in my brash immature nature
to fit into your round holes and your fettered fantasy.


F. Coda

The grand structure of the fable,
the cautionary tale,
the myth,
the legend,
the silent whisper of the last exhaled breath,
were all contained in the first
wholly gratuitous and perverse act.
I could see it
in the way you turned the key for your apartment,
I could see it
in the combination of the padlock on your jewelry case,
I could see it
in the simple phrases you said,

the words that threatened me with
the end which would be inevitable,
hazy utterances pulled out of restless sleep,
the words of happier songs,
but all the time knowing
how the end would be.


0.

The mountains erode anyway, you said,
and fall into the sea regardless of our faith.