DRIVE TIME
I’m Kanye kissing sadly at ur
neck at the service station, before
I crash the escalade with
beltway soft skin & interior
leather getting beiger and
beiger in a fountainhead of
vinyl-chested innocence my
brothers in a dinner dress
giving methylated hugs —
I have a jewel case of memory
I have to have beside me and
the only thing that’ll cheer me up
is an oxblood-fresh suite. Im kinda sleepy
but when I wake up I’m about to go softly
toward a flat-topped hill for liberty
IN YOU
in you is the arroyo in you is the bank of
dawn above the pool one motion overhead
at one time, always thinking of the guard-lines
making, sand come up to meet us thinking,
knelt down by my brother, think of attitudes,
think – this line this lap this lay this
tabletop this mesa, here for me.
a motion to articulate, a spread via the up-line
to the monuments beside which our people lay
in dirt. I lay a down-line here beside you, prayed out,
striking for the measures of water, laid out
in our laps, the way – this way points out to opal.
the forgotten serotonin, the inhibited removal,
someone by me laying out a place for me
in bed forms, this obstruction this ingratitude
think – the land the lay the linoleum,
streaming down the aisle to me.
flat laid is the vista of you crying out
above my hands at rest, effusive
over plains of sudden closeness.
TRANCE MANUAL
And does it even matter to me
if it was a rainy night in Los Alamos?
I had café crème so now looking at
yellow fields I don’t even need you.
I’d passed the field in a rainstorm with
private sick fervour. At night the yellow
dorm has labelled up cleaning supplies
I want to climb into with only my shoes on.
In the bathrooms I make some kinda love, to
a high water mark, scum on the tile. Tiny
flies scare me when we are attempting
to wash in the commune.
I wish you could see it. At circle time in France
I make my pond scale Guernica, out of a
body in canvas and gold. This class is soft
absolute-terror where we get seen.
One by one, as God looks at us, the scent
of four thousand bodies is a something we
hide and we rescue a frog from the showers.
The golden edge of what I got now –
It’s sick still and touches me. In the facing
green hedges I actually sleep, behind a
sweat-screen with clover and plantain.
I’d slept in the damp horror we had.
Towards the disc I do get bathed, against
our wills in the pale yellow light. I tell you
about it before we go sit there again, to get
hit on the skin maybe. In any case –
I saw sun come through marblised creamy
soft glass by you so, you know it better
than most, with down smoothing us close.
