Eaves
the sounds of the tracks like blood vessels
my latitude splayed open against the anagrams
of your hidden nexus
Martha Martha Martha
a tram a tram a tramp
you have seduced me against my better
desire do not hold me accountable
for my fractions
to fall in love with
departure will I ever arrive
in Eden to take back the name
Adam gave to flight?
Wednesday Mar 3 @ 01:43am
2 March 2012
Can I pick up something never begun? You can’t step in the sane river twice. A book’s form is not concerned with consistency. I drove 15 miles to get coffee but really using coffee as an excuse to get the drive. Watkinsville, GA. Storm clouds a comin. The windmill out front is hysterical, spinning. No one is screaming. Holding their breath as the clouds billows past: a momentary frown on a dark brow. But let’s call this God’s goodness, a blessing. Spring is anxious. 80 and the trees are still naked, embarrassed and breathless; jolted awake by an alarm that hasn’t gone off yet. Life is just momentary anticipation. But I’d rather not talk about euphamisms. The “town center” here is a square brick building, at the intersection of two roads; I do not have an inclination for radial symmetry.
Someone ordered coffee through the drive thru: if you watch a film in fast forward, you never hear the actors speak; the experience becomes motion, a rapid succession only seen by standing still. I go to the movies to know when to laugh, and then I learn why I cry.
Coffee can taste like anything. Today it is soil, the extinction of the passenger pigeon: a gunshot in the dark, milk and bean to wake me.
3 March 2012
My hair reaching away from my body
The soul internalized, the body always external, separate.
Does the soul not touch?
Hindsight is not better vision, just a narrower focus through which to place emotions on a distanced events; hue the better reason.
I have a hunger for the drive, for open spaces, for traveling. No cities just road. I want the possibility of destination, not the assurance of arrival.
Un-self Portrait #1
“Let us take our hands and stay.”
I am tired: do I long for the dawn or the sleep?
I saw a broom stand straight into the electric air -a matter of celestial alignments. It didn’t sweep anything.
A month and a half and where am I going oh if my mind weren’t so topsy turvy, or if
my smile could stay genuine for more than just a while.
This phase is never good timing.
Somtimes these times sum up darkness does not accumulate but multiplies
I cannot be my own light but let me be yours.
Call me something good.
Call me. Something good.
Call me something. Good.
This is not a poem
This is not a poem
This is not a poem
More ways to see a wor(l)d
And this is not a poem.
Wednesday Mar 3 @ 11:07pmVivisectitude
by Rachel Stoker
Part I: Vitals, or Pre-Existing Conditions
POW: a gunshot signals the beginning of the race to the finishing line:
N____( )N_____( )N_____( )N_________________.
An argument: Joetavius Stafford ran after the gun was fired, was shot three times in the back by an unquestionably armed officer.
“My brother threw his hands up. MARTA police shot him in the back. Pow. And my brother lying on the ground, just looking at me and I was looking at his gunshot wound. As I’m looking at that, MARTA police shot him two more times in the back.”
Prisoner of words: he said /he said:
Joetavius threw up his hands in worship,
reaching for the weapon of absence,
shot down and dying due to intentional random selection.
The crowds gathered, waiting to be accused.
A lesson in justice:
Scenario 1:
Suzie, Salley, and you skip to the playground only
To find two swings for the three of you.
Rock paper scissors has Suzie and Salley on the swings,
You watching, waiting for your turn.
Only, really, you are Suzie and Salley due to a necessary diagnosis
Of Multiple Personality Disorder, for which you never
Knew you had medication. So you sit, watching
Sally and Suzey swing back and forth, balanced
Only out of your objective perspective.
Scenario II:
Last week I found out that they grind up spent hens
Down the road from my house in the building painted
With sunny pastures and a picnicking family eating
Unspecified pie.
It’s okay. I only used to be wild.
A business celebrates cutting its losses.
Economically,
this is the best decision.
Scenario III:
I is only as valuable as the referent behind it,
a subject is still subject to greater power complexes.
Foucault’s Panopticon is full of I’s.
Justice is for just us.
A gunshot signals the beginning of the finished line,
Always an issue of race.
—A.C.A.B.—
Part II: Vigil
Candlelight on the esplanade
Closest thing to stars since electricity
A dead boy on the banks of concrete,
We watch, wait for –what?
The mirror is short-sighted into immediacy:
Seeing the foreground, only.
The man with a gun shot the man he thought had a gun.
Chase the gunshot like a boomerang;
hunt the silence, reverse the motion.
Candlelight on the fade,
show me how to wax the wane:
I want to see you come back to me.
Part III: Versus
Playing chase, a barefoot forester of suburban lawns
I tripped, cutting my hand as my arms leapt forward
The catch to my fall. Blood pulsed forth from my
Minor scrape: My heart did not quell the vessels,
keeping to its delivery schedule. No use crying
over spilled milk. Why worry about
A scab that will not scar? A few weeks later,
I could not tell if the cut was healed or hiding.
Saturday Mar 3 @ 12:52am