Based in the bayou. Launched from the levee. Leftovers are we. 

 

A Noble Proof

For a man,

How then, map this sterile land to life?

How to sew this, the ever-widening flesh as a casket,

This, the lolling brass tongues of a blue bell rusted mute,

This, the threatened symmetry of us, ever taunting with its wide-eyed yawns.


My heroes, all, crippled by the thinness of being

Spectors, whining, at the cochlear cave,

“How this? The metronomic bliss?”

And you, at the other, feeding me my name.


How there, in that dry, crystalline draft,

Did you, with dawning arithmetic,

name the numbers to add us in to the fore

Of this fabric dream, its rags shifting and parting in wanton invitation.


They tell us, of swollen loins, swept lovers

Watch this, and whistle our damp, colorless tune,

In the spin of this, gelatine gyre, the cold-toothed fear

Braces me and spits its sanctimonious scramble,

This I must unweave, this we do not deserve.


How, through heather down on cityscapes,

Did you pace the patterns of floods across my atlas, wrinkled with drink,

How, my hunger as catholic as loaves and wine,

Would crouch its yellow haunches and feed on you with its eyelids drawn.


Dock Four

Dock Four

A Sour Place

A Sour Place