4-track.

I don't understand why

you turn me on then let me run,

but it's okay. I'm a machine.

I can stop

and I can start again as many times I can start

and

                      fill

the room with warm

silence.

It's okay. Don't be

afraid to make a mistake.

I can cut it out.

I can write down

ice cracking

                    an angel's hum

                                             raccoons

                                              breaking

                                                  in.

I can pan them out

and blend you all together

into one beautiful

adulterated

mess.

but you stand there, and

I catch your breath.

and I play it back.

and it feels like mine.

and the weight of your air weakens me.

and I begin to feel human.

Brimstone Logic.

Her lips:
hotcoals
scourging mine
refining
like brass, fine
polished for
end times.

Liquid
and
Grit

Sifted
and
Sieved

Every movement—
blink of the eye—
a drip-
ing word:

White spaces

(I love to read)
in a book that never ages
under the canopy of
my kingdom.

Starving the Oxen

There is less
you say
and more teethmarks embedded
into your lips
than there ever were.


It keeps you quiet
you say
but I feel the weight in your heart
the rustic pulley
with feeble oldman's bones,
and the tension strikes a chord:
B minor?
No. Something more
Isolated.
Depressingly jaw-clenching.
E. half-diminished.

I remember
a great river, and it broke
into four heads:
Pishon Gihon Tigris Euphrates
and they would flow back to Eden,
if they could.
But you can seldom turn back
when you've been dammed from the mouth.
An Act of God is
required, but not included.

A muzzle is nothing to be honored
you said
little words
are saved for the dead
"hope" and "wait" change voices
and sprout crowns from their thorny heads.

I can do nothing with words
I said
but lie in bed. and pray
(will tears
water you
the slightest?)
and turn back
and know—
I will be heard.
An Act of God is
in motion.