In San Bernadino Countysmoke moves slowly during rush-hour on sundaysIn San Bernadino County in Scraps More Like This
constellations abandon your throat and ask for time
sometimes i mean the illness was photographs of oak trees
and the collar bones of strangers kept
and posted electric all along the curvature
i'm older now and the sky is an occupation of grief
outside the silhouettes of old industries bankrupt, deferred
and re-manufactured into successive arcing giants painted
like a storm with the black outline of a woman in the foreground
i mean there are people drinking
in an empty room in the yard and we talk about America
as a strange language of freeways exchanged between oceans who speak fondly of other oceans
and an angel collapsed across the gate says 'all the troubles' and 'leaving is a feral inertia'
prolonged exposure to this radiation has been known to cause pain,
i mean every person brings with them a parade of telephone poles and oak trees
which occasionally radicalize into a possession of lights
and sporadic raptures of black crows
retrogradein october we harvest but this is a poem and I am a mailbox and the type of stuttering half-winter in my city.retrograde in Scraps More Like This
sometimes i shout the oklahoma radio rust, sometimes invent a dixie-cup field of red space as an argument for displacement v. disappearance- and when i'm lonely your district is peopled and settled by the babbled rivers in the architecture blueglow in writhing continents of jellyfish [which, as metaphors, predate political affiliation and the quaking earth]
And then all oak amplifiers in the mountain suicide, then all photorealized rivers jaundiced paleyellow from a draining sun.
I went out and came home to a fire on the street
I saw a car and a man suspended over the shoulder of the freeway, both motionless
I believe mars was in retrograde as I fucked a girl near a forest.
We harvested the crop, fucked, and then sat apart and alone in the dark,
because this is a poem.
pelotas azulyour discrete rapturespelotas azul in Scraps More Like This
i no longer suspect that we are the accident
but the blinding revenge
an infinite color
reordered i remember you said the fall
each station preaches the landscape
group b"Silence is a predication of severe instability. Take the storm that killed your father: You've remarked in your sleep, repeatedly, about the quiet presence of pigeons."group b in Scraps More Like This
I wake up and I can't move. And then the paralysis, the thick swelling of my diaphragm, the hard shallow breaths sort of drift into a strange kind of weightlessness. There is no more bed, no wall, no atmosphere pressing on my chest and choking me. For a moment I believe I've died; that this is dying. And then they come.
"Tell the group more about your experiences."
I mostly remember my mother. Her hands on my shoulders, the hallway convulsing with the sides of my skull. Like a sick electric tide. She would cry or yell and the walls would shake. And then she started praying, that night in the living room, with her hands on my shoulders, begging God over and over to bring me home.
"And you believe you love them? How?"
(Doctor, look, I don't mean to interrupt but really their intentions haven't been established. It is bec
autofuckusWe are fuck-ups.autofuckus in Scraps More Like This
We can't mechanically separate the forest from the fire
or articulate with our science a metaphor
that isn't the object but the distance which surrounds.
This lie is a herd of wild planets carving their metal crops in the desert
It is the two-night frost of last winter which tore its crystal tumor
through the capillaries of the system,
because failure is a radiation of electric blue dying,
and the asphalt articulates itself in the lungs not as a collision
but as a slowly building hollywood narrative of pine trees
echoing from an epicenter.
It is, sometimes, the depression of surfaces and respiration and people and economies,
but mostly the junkie heart-surgeon I heard sobbing on the phone in the hospital
when she thought no one could hear her husband's hands;
my friend with a line to his chest, chemo killing everything indiscriminately,
and I think of it like bleach around the ebola villages of africa,
I think of it like god purging his landscapes of prototype species,
redshiftI know that the exit is an infinite landscape post-peopleredshift in Scraps More Like This
That we are not the accident but the mistake,
the blank revenge
There is a quiet each station predicts
I know the static and the constancy
I know of rumors of unmeasured color
I know the compressed lake inside the stomach,
vast and heavy
I've heard the loss as a rising vagueness,
a slow and discrete rapture
I know the wreck is not a butterfly
or a wave or a hall of lights.
I know that it is only inevitability reordered
until it resembles a canyon.
I know that I knew you once.
quail manyour mediums followquail man in Scraps More Like This
to decorate the tumors with people
it is Dear god i will eat your fucked and failing frequencies
Trickling Airthe Cloud Recliner - northwest in summer,Trickling Air in Scraps More Like This
gasps and sputters while watching its
stuffing spill distilled water; overcast.
and it thinks of Man, waiting to drink the
air out of Cloud's kinks (the Earth moves)
when condensation soaks floating vapor.
no one is there to drown in Cloud's air that
trickles sunward without a care,
coating the damp, cramped Earth with its last breath.