in white-winged sun:
I sip flavored water
like a hummingbird
or like gold chains with
I can only consume.
I am tied in a birthday
bow. And all I do now
is sleep in the library
or in the park like a kiss
of ivy or lusty, touching
oak : I kiss like another
hummingbird, with wings
like suns, like wailing
copper suns, like big
afternoons : I dive in
to the darkest sections,
the deepest coves to
take a ruling root there,
sucking on the dusted floor
like a gay grape with
the skins peeled right off
by my own lucky teeth.
I cannot close-case
on my own silly murder:
I read Wallace and Caesar
until my fat fingers fall.
It is only at a second glance
that the china doll take a stiff
state, where before life had a
trick of a way, appearing on a thing
like her, bell jar jammed, fermenting
dustless. And I know her atoms
are creaking apart slow as a kiln
cools, aluminum and oxygen
and silicon sitting insider her
hollow head, hiding her maker’s
mark. Makes her real and then
she dies like a baby dies, but stays.
It must have been a trick, like I said,
but this time, a trick of the light.
A man God said “Let there be…” and
then a man invented the light bulb
(an oblong thing made of carbon and
silicon and other stronger atoms)
capped God, and sold his silly magic.
Another man had round glasses
because it was hard for him to see
even in the light, he said “Let
It Be” but failed to specify if what
he meant was light, now all three
men are dead and I can’t seem
to see without my glasses or
without light and i know that this is
a trick as well.
I met a man who couldn’t quite see
so he replaced his eyes with rabbit
eyes and his feet with rabbit feet
for good measure, and his tail with
a red fox tail. He grew light fur on his
head which was hollow as a doll’s.
His shallow ears were rabbit ears, making
him less parts fox, which he knew.
I told him about glasses and
monocles and clear, wet contacts.
He grinned and told me straight
that seeing what a rabbit sees and
feeling what a fox feels, feels like God
and light, and the touch of tricky life.
I reached into the gaped mouth
of my bag like a
mama bird to feed
and fingered a caramel
covered in chocolate,
covered in a wrapper
brown as plague,
brought it out
and rolled it in my hands
like a clay snake
I pulled at the twisted fringes
but did not free it yet
i folded its
wrinkled ends to its sides
and rolled it in my hands again
It is soft now and
and warm I remember
when it was cold.
I freed it then,
got chocolate on my
fingertips like a swiss.
I stuck out my tongue
like a black dog in
and put the little
puddle on myself
and let it sink
and let it melt
I pushed it aside
(in my mouth this time)
to lick my fingers
again, like a swiss
when a bald girl looked at me
with fat, aryan eyes,
like I was underwater
i wrote a poem
about it and her
with fingers wet
five to ten
on the rocks
do it live
had my fill
Every Irish highway driver on the M7 (W)
and S x SW to Ennis (Co. Clare)
passed Limerick, where there are too many
words for green, saw a parliament
of sparrows fly like paper airplanes (wet and fragile)
from the boot of our tame lion, tiny car
and that is why they took turns overtaking us,
because they hated the sound of tiny beaks
(like young stones spit from slingshots)
against their glass. I cannot blame them though,
because, I’ll yield, these small birds,
are so full of blood.
In Ennis (finally there) the sparrows
cannot enjoy themselves — cannot kill themselves
because the churches and the Old Ground Hotel,
in its majesty, (on its corner
like a beggar been there so long that ivy ascends him)
does not permit the wind
that Doolin does. Little Doolin, on the treebark cliffs,
a horsehay town fed by ocean foam, with a pink house
hanging in its only kitty corner, like a pine cone,
where I had two pints of cedar colored beer.
(Tasted like flowers) I did not have a taste for it yet
but I was warm and drunk and sixteen
enough to realize (like the Irishman that i am not)
that a trinity sparrows (a parliament enough)
pecked at my long hair like a donkey
and jumped around, three toes to each
on top of me, footfalls like an ink stamp,
my scalp like a letterhead,
send them off somewhere:
one flounced from me (like a memory),
she hid in the fiddle of the stomp-band at the bar.
One flew to the cognac. The bastard. This is Ireland.
The last, the ladybird, stayed the longest
then swooped to the mirror and crashed
and died. And nobody noticed but me,
so I stared at the glass like I had no choice
(like it was a windshield and I, a highwayman).
I saw the blood of bird reflect
right on the button of my head
and I felt the wind
and heard it scream. From the Guinness foam.
From the ocean foam. Into my ears (feather-full).
I woke up the next morning with sparrow hair
and a shattered beak. Every mirror
had a bird-shaped crack, and more blood
than I ever could have expected
(from a thing as small as her)