A Blue Song.
Oh yes, but this song is for empathy. For the grasses'
leaves' greens being yellowed. For when winter
says, "Hello": A song as this might add to its start with an opening
chord or two. Oh (yes), but this song is for me: Hello.
A greeting is an affirmation of one thinking thing
to another. I greet stones. Tie them to my feet when
I jump into my own blood. Drown for a bit. Wait
for a response. The stones don't say anything. Flowers
do sometimes, inspiring a heart to do a little lilt
within itself. So much to speak of about flowers: Thick yellow grasses
swirling around like the sounds swirling within a severed ear.
That's a good painting.
But that painting is yellow. Blood is red. Water is
blue, or the sky is
blue, or our minds make them
blue, so where should I jump? Upwards towards the birds
or downwards towards the fish? If human embryos look like fish
then wombs might be oceans, but amnion fluid is yellow: Like
sunflowers. Was Van Gogh a yellow man if he had a gun? And am I
blue because words
sometimes sing?
Wine Poem.
Go, small song. Make yourself
known. Stretch your arms as sunlight,
glow. We humans’ leaves’ greens need you,
so, will you love us as our ears do you?
Wonder with me, throat, as you say
your notes and lengthen their dull to
soft nevers. The crowd still hears you
tomorrow, the last song before the final
closing of the eyes before godless sleep.
Coffins vibrate with your enthusiasms,
corpses know remorse, finally, like a
cracked ancient bell with some something
left. String me as niggers
screaming in pillow fields. String me
as hazardous Lazarus sinewed neck-string
plucked as flowers, as slave-ships docked
upon the shore with gentle endless thud. We’ll
keep singing spirituals forever, we’ll keep
saying things about skin. We will win. Win
like mirrors lastly seeing smiles. Come with me
as stars die and are still witnessed. Inscribed
as pride in a mother’s voice with small
black boy joy, with tears, first cries, blood,
water
and the mother’s song mountain-heavy
and living.
Oh yes, but this song is for empathy. For the grasses'
leaves' greens being yellowed. For when winter
says, "Hello": A song as this might add to its start with an opening
chord or two. Oh (yes), but this song is for me: Hello.
A greeting is an affirmation of one thinking thing
to another. I greet stones. Tie them to my feet when
I jump into my own blood. Drown for a bit. Wait
for a response. The stones don't say anything. Flowers
do sometimes, inspiring a heart to do a little lilt
within itself. So much to speak of about flowers: Thick yellow grasses
swirling around like the sounds swirling within a severed ear.
That's a good painting.
But that painting is yellow. Blood is red. Water is
blue, or the sky is
blue, or our minds make them
blue, so where should I jump? Upwards towards the birds
or downwards towards the fish? If human embryos look like fish
then wombs might be oceans, but amnion fluid is yellow: Like
sunflowers. Was Van Gogh a yellow man if he had a gun? And am I
blue because words
sometimes sing?
Wine Poem.
Go, small song. Make yourself
known. Stretch your arms as sunlight,
glow. We humans’ leaves’ greens need you,
so, will you love us as our ears do you?
Wonder with me, throat, as you say
your notes and lengthen their dull to
soft nevers. The crowd still hears you
tomorrow, the last song before the final
closing of the eyes before godless sleep.
Coffins vibrate with your enthusiasms,
corpses know remorse, finally, like a
cracked ancient bell with some something
left. String me as niggers
screaming in pillow fields. String me
as hazardous Lazarus sinewed neck-string
plucked as flowers, as slave-ships docked
upon the shore with gentle endless thud. We’ll
keep singing spirituals forever, we’ll keep
saying things about skin. We will win. Win
like mirrors lastly seeing smiles. Come with me
as stars die and are still witnessed. Inscribed
as pride in a mother’s voice with small
black boy joy, with tears, first cries, blood,
water
and the mother’s song mountain-heavy
and living.
Kaguya.
friend,
I'll miss you like a plastic
water-bottle in an ocean
floating
away, emptied of message like hollow
mouths somehow
making
some work of our tongues’ clay this
shape, that,
a word
or two,
some drinks as well gliding down the canals of
our
throats, the same chambers of breath, of the grey
inhalations
from the paper-white cylinders we burn
I say I only smoke on special occasions,
so, you
when we
take the paddle-boat in the park and the ducks'
brass
laughs are knowing, I
spin us
around in circles as my
other
hand is a little stronger when I
try to
push us forward I'm
sorry,
I'll
miss
you like water in a bottle trapped by its lid
turning into air in the sun, then whose
gas will hit
its plastic walls and then return to dew,
I'll miss you
like
that, I'll
miss
you like how the Great Books school you go to feels
of where we were then and where we were now
which,
no matter how much chance, the pictures
poured into
our palms through our pens— beaming now
from crystal squares
with which we take our photos— are still seen
by our eyes:
remember our eyes, I'll miss you
like
that, I'll
miss
you like when the big man upstairs said
the "darkness here and the light there”
and when to see that already the world was
created
into two–
a generous deep split branching out forever
into a meeting point we can only assume
is somewhere behind us and behind our eyes—
is to be inside oneself — you would never
smash up your head like that, would you?
just for the nerves of it? — and
when
to hold yourself and to see that pink decay
of yours
filled with memory and now several smokes
is prayer
I'll miss you like that I’m sure, there'll be
whole twittering stretches of string-song
like bird muscle
to say so, but that pink thing in your
head I won't miss you,
no, not like that. I'll
do this
now then when I think of
you
I'll
feel the thing in my chest like
you
I'll
look for a song that looks like
you
to
match this thing in my chest and
you
won't
suddenly appear and I'll pretend that that
you
is good
enough because it won't be
(
)
my
friend, I'll miss you like the paddle-boat spins, and the wood
of the
boat against the wood of the dock, and
our
hollow mouths sounding and our feet finding earth.
