10/10

The blackbird, the sparrow
perch beakless on sinking wires,
bobbing in the wind, in the wake.
Sparking steel dragging through the street
—not the best metal, like fingernails
flaking, chipping. Mine belong to the days
when tires froze to the streets
and the sky never caught fire—
this drum never caught—
and Lucy,
you end me.

9/10

This infant flesh
is not my flesh. Nor is this red ink—
soaked sack drying burlap. A red splotch blooms over;
incendiary match
peels fiber from porous fiber
in a drum sprayed with graffiti argot.
A neutral void now,
and perhaps I am sitting too close—
tiny toes crack and pop
in vacuous silence,
like my voice crumbling from my mouth.

8/10

A postcard,
desperate language smeared in haste,
scripts itself under the guise
of an expert marksman.
Adulterated by beaks, perhaps;
peck-holes infiltrate context,
and it is indiscernible, sir
—like scissors that snipped lamentable faces.
Scrawled from a shaky hand,
stiff and out of tune.
Slip it into the dusty voice box
with a post script—post haste.

7/10

Buzz clippers
resonate louder,
deeper than bombs,
and sharper than lonesome brick walls
jutting my knee caps.
Thank god, somebody did.
my pen broke; it stuttered
blots and blobs over thin greens,
continuous exhales under blue-black splatter.
There is just this one thing—
my sinkholes are eyes.
There is just
—invariably—
there is just this one thing,
just these few things
I never liked about you, Sparrow.
Luxembourg,
I need a couch, to avoid the raid.

6/10

He marked the fall of a slaughter
on his arm—tombstone flesh honoring
the pale eyes like moons
the gods didn’t want anymore.
Cross hatched egg tangled my dress
—a push, and my chest caved.
Wo hältst du deine Toten?
Put her in a produce sack
—burlap weave chafe;
we’ll carry her to town.

5/10

Sparrow, inconsistent, sees
large ribbons of ink veil empty lines,
a broken pulse of thought,
the tongue I’ve lost.
Sparrow laughs, Wer bist du?
Rivulets of veins;
her eyes like a moon tangled in trees,
and a sleep jaw.
She is the innocent thrust from my body,
like lungs deflating,
tumbling over the drain.
My birth is weak. My birth is rot.
Aber mich, Sparrow,
I am blank.

3/10

Arthritic hands
--laced and limbless—
perch the fog.
Blackbird mutters about the hollow
men plagued by syntax.
I ask the significance of hawks and tornadoes,
or of my belly pregnant with ideas too obligated
for my inadequacies.

The wind rattles with shells of brilliance
that cease to live--up to--
Blackbird follows me.

Ich kann ihn nicht vergessen.

He's the hollow, follows me,
shouting loss failure loss.
He drops cordials from enticing heights,
wishing to invite me
while yester-bodies scrape by at a crawl.
What's the significance of a pale face with moons for eyes?
And a demeanor level like Dresden.

Ich kenne ihn nicht.

Silence fails like the combative noise of trying.
I'm not a war criminal.
Blackbird mutters, moons are stones, too.

4/10

Sparrows swore they’d never gnaw
my shallow flesh—boneskin clutch in hollow suit.
Bud sprouts pirouette through flat-lined
pages wasted like days,
like trumpets marching rigadoon through iron ambits.
Freezing limbs and senses—
I can’t smell the mud of new birth.
Sparrow teases the device of forgetting
camel-lashes thick like fingers that
framed my face,
or legs treading indifferent plateaus.
Vater, unclench my fingers;
Ich kann nicht verlassen.

2/10

The shrapnel—
the was, the after—
the me-not-you,
splitting hairs like tattered shoes.
It’s something of an anachronism,
rerunning marathons over cratered faces
—dotted bygones of soft pucker-prick.
He fell deaf,
supine, spineless,
gutted ink bottle—
and I taciturn.
See that shadow?
Substratum of my legs
(It’s not yours).
Scheiss, Liebe,
I knifed my tongue for you.

1/10

The Blood-letters
--incarnadine pricks—
pass like a fever,
sticking a trail from nape
to crescent hips
eclipsed by lace.
Battle stole my brother.
Battle saved my marriage.
Luck stuck in blood letters
sealed and censored
between two shades
of incessant tries.
On like a dress--
mein Liebe,
wie schlaefst du nachts?
--unsupportive dress caught
between my legs
like dreams and thieves.
Mein Liebe,
I sleep like a ruin.