Collection: Music in Scars

Excerpts from an unpublished manuscript; these were originally featured at gobblersmasticadores

	the white of our bones. 

our heads out the car window 
comets breaching  

our teeth bent with the bite
of hexagons, tetrahedrons 

		cacography of smoke

whistling through our eyes

tea leaves, bones, the skeleton of centuries laid bare
ochre and yellow

a fox's bones
toxic plasma singing hymns in ancient texts

you say, my god does not allow it.
what about you?
why isn't you enough?

the face you are reaching for laughs
at your prehistoric ideas

they smell of latrines

the weak excrement of  man inventing
little jails

for us
the marketable masses 

lovely bipods

intoxicated by false

so his ass can sit softer . . .

Don't preach, you say, and take a plum from the bowl.

And for what?

the froth continues
the man in the tweed coat feeds pigeons
she collects rain in oak barrels

the earth bends on its spindle
and you drive on the beach

the sun blinding you
as the old ladies jog by

with no lipstick

the grasses that are yellow

the grasses that are green

step out, wet morning air

chilling bones 

metacarpals, tarsals

the falling of skin

into the next season

twisted plasma, yarn 

and hope

the shattered glass
of hope

gleaming in early sun

what you offered forth

was ample but not enough

the fraction of the fraction

of the scientist dying 

in books with metal clasps

and tidy secrets

buried in chests and manila folders

the documents of tax

of the soul

the endless pages blanker

than the blank page

blanker than the gaze

of Greek statues 

the invisible script

laid across your cerebellum

across your eyeballs

dazzled with rejection


corollary sunsets

unmixed gas

the insipid stare of the pursuer

now her feet are warm in her hasten slippers

a shrunken sweater

the milk dripping from her lips

like a cat sucking god

she will go to the farms today

what is in season?

the urging toward life

is deadly


the bare feet

walking by the freezing ocean

the gulls lurking above

like unaware saints

the mystical

call of the ugly deep

that thwacks our knees

with unknowns

terrifyingly unseens

when you step into deep waters

when you step into deep waters


in season