Boredom of the Womb


1.

Our motion’s made by moving frames

            /           A handful of sequential stops


among              /    drifting spirals—


An anchor dropped/in shifting mud


            and lost/           Detaching


                        at the slightest wave.


2.


            I’ve grown impatient for the inner kicking—

            the musical shock

                        of the fading

                                     mask—


            I am loafed in the depression of immortals.



            The doors are timed to open,

            and sensation

                        covers us to sleep—


                                                   acute pleasures

                                                   as we live from birth to birth—

                        blindfolds for the hidden eye.



            A voice calls

            from implacable directions,


            “Our motion’s made

                        by moving frames,”

                        a liturgy in jazz—


and every shadow is a map for prophets,

            the vision cast by fleeting image—


            a blurry face behind the face.


3.

            PAPER WEAPONS DETONATE LONG-DISTANCE HAIRCUTS ON

                                                     BANISHED GENERAL


(The house-on-fire looming in the secret zodiac)


                                  SUBJECTS DISAPPEAR FROM PAINTINGS


***


                        (The dogs are left in cages for days,      their blood

                                                   pumped in whispers

                                                                                   while


A BRIDGE IS A WALL ((       (            the grunts play serious checkers—))


                                     a hair in every cup.))


***

IT HAPPENED

(Speak loudly and your soul

                                                                                       grows flesh)


the headlines are capitalized,

            and the currency of counterfeit


            reveals

            the onion’s pit—


THE DANCE OF THE BLIND GUNNER

            moving

            in the lines of a palm


                        as a bird gives the wrong call,

                        screaming

                                     Detach! Detach!


                                                                              my god,”


                                     pinned in the current.


4.

>>>I’m>>>>>>>

>>>>>>>awake>>>>>

>>>>>and>>>>>>>>

            >>>>>drifting>>>>>>>>>>

     >>>>>>>>>>>>>>

            >>>>>>>>>>

                  >>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>

            >>>>>>>>>>pushed>>>>>>>>

>>>>>>>from note>>>>>>>

>>>>>to>>>>>

>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>note>>>>>>>

>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>as>>>>>>

>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>a clocktower >>>>

                                     >>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>grows>>>>>>>

                                     >>>>>          >>>>>>>            >>

                        >>>>>>>>>>>>>>> among the maples>>>>>

                        >>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>

            >>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>

            >>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>

>>>>>>>>>>>>A child>>>>>>>draws>>>>>>>>

>>>>>>>>>>>            >>>       >>>>>>>a solitary pupil


                        unremembered in the passing>>>>>

                        >>>>>>>>>>>>

                        >>>>>>>baskets of sex and cornbread,

                        >>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>             >>>>>>>>>

                                     the ambiance of the stadium

                               >>>secreted >>>>>>>>>>

                               >>>>>>>>>in his gestures.>>>>>>>>

>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>

>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>

                  >>>>>The insistent aura of beer >>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>

                        >>>>>>>>       >>>>>>>>>>

            >>>>>>>>>>>>>on the sticky floor

                                      >>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>

            >>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>rises in the classrooms

                        >>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>

>>>>>>>>>>while, somewhere>>>>>>>>>>>>>>

                                           >>>>>>>>>>> the prayers go on—

                        >>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>                         >>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>

                        >>>>>>>>>>>>grace in greedy tongues>>>>>>>>>


                        >>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>as soy sauce>>>>>>>>>>>

                                      >>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>soaks>>>>>>>>>>>>


                        >>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>the pages>>>>>>>>>>>>>>

                                                               >>>>>of Ecclesiastes>>>>>>>>

     >>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>

            >>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>

                        >>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>

                  >>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>

>>>>>A child looks through>>>>>>>>>>>

     >>>>>>>>>>>>>>>the box of matches>>>>>>>>>>

                 >>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>

                    >>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>

                         >>>>>>>>>>>>>>for the one>>>>>>

            >>>>>>>>>>            >>>>>>>>>>                >>>>

>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>that bears his name>>>>>>>>

                    >>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>

                         >>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>

            >>>>>and I’m awake>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>

                                      >>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>

                                      >>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>

                                      >>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>

                                                   >>>>>>>>>>drifting>>>>>>>>>>

                         >>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>

                                      >>>>   >>>>   >>>>


                         >>>>>as the river spills over>>>>>>>>>>

                                >>>>>       >>>>>>            >>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>

                                              >>           >>                >>


                                                 >>>>>>>>>in melody>>>>>>>>>>

                                      >>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>

                                                      >>>>to snuff     >>>   >>>>>the flame>>>>>>>>

                                         >>>>>>>>>       >>>>>>    >>>>>>>

                                                               >>         >>         >>

                                        >>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>


5.

            “Our motion’s made / by moving frames,”


                        /the eyes have darkened

                                     into holes.


            The lightness of a hollowed bone/

                        is written into

                                     its movements—


            it’s a body, where any             /

                        body will do.


                        I recognize the hands,


                                       the flashing / in and out of sunlight / pulsing in the chest;

                                       the sun, which turns / unnoticed like a distant engine,


                                       /as prayers go on    /    amid the drifting.


            The lips are mine / the words


                                     escape like platelets / from injured skin,


and hesitantly breathing,      I let go this battered trunk/

                        his decayed manuscript

            left empty at the altar of broadcast/


            and grow new flesh.


The eyelid opens—


I’ll wear these words tomorrow as


                                     WE LIVE FROM BIRTH TO BIRTH


And the finish line / is anywhere / but here


    the finish line>>>>

            >>>>>>>>is anywhere>>>>

                        >>>>>>>>>>>>>>but here


                            the finish line is anywhere but here.

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