new poem

To tell of teaching the body to pray

Straight ways are walked to launder
me clean. I saint-watch Mary Anne
while pretending dreams sleep in
my chair. When she freshes covers
Her arms rise and fall. As enfleshed
concentration: her breasts risen
and falling as daily bread. Maybe
the still warm parts of her remain.

I dream she is getting ready for
work washing clean bodies for
funeral. And she prays that I can only
trust the dead. The digging of her
gardens reminds me of the sprawl
and tangle. Last night she told our
new priest of observing me smile.
A long time last since Advent.

New poem

Confessions of Fortune Neglected

When teaching, body minds me to breathe in: breath out.
Eyes do not see shimmers and bold shades wander wicked
and kind within and around the slick and vascular dense
spacelessness of low brain; a locus for haunting by former loves
as if Broca priviledged their campground and ancestral grounding

with a name. When walked and wandered and worked of needs
done is done, body is mostly alone and suprated in front of ugly
cookbooks and bogus textbooks and skanky dictionaries of butchered
saints. Body deigns why are there so few succulent spirits to recall
The taint is only and again so many mistakes and count them as cost

mistakes to pray for and burn. Body will say today that I (body is)
am made of mistakes. mistakes that many lovers of my teachers have
paid as gravedirt price. forgive us all hasty and arrogant performances
of cannot do this: cannot do this and cannot do this again: and finish
with the valued and jettisoned version of the consecrated strain.

So it goes. As if these doe breasted and rutted morphes of menstudents need
help emptying their bodies of meaning. They are feeding me kenosis as
apophatic masters inhabit each of them. Pools of since feeling is first battle
dance within slippery and graceless irregular verbs that rattle the locks of
their spore into particular sleek and styleless notions of defeat.

As if the god's persective never could change. The soul
of body is a movement along the chainbrakes and crack of
desire. Nowhere and elsewhere are holy sparks present
and counted as faith unto righteousness. Maybe the quickening
lust of flesh made heir is more to the point of their working rest.

New poem

Work of Fathers

What does chainwork say about these our Gods?

Does worship retain a plural? Are ropes of believe in me covering

less ground and trailways? What would it be as thread,
can parabola, or splinter of narrative coupling and penetrating

with a character arc make a difference in the winding
smoke and updraft of stories nee prayer long neglected?

What is the aboutness of chain implied by the cracks

in brick and stone, block and rock, our walls and fences?

Does it tell a prayer of load bearing desire? of forged Stocks
holding Persephone's long wait. How will a wall of block
wait for the chain? The raw stances holding our parts in desire aware?

Emerson's iron strand is a chain. Not moving up the via

not moving down the interdicts, but straining left and right.
Moving to host and stem, pared and loosened rindedness of want(ing).

Simple sweeps of stress moving steppes of not enough up nor down
linked top to ground as a question is presented by the nude

and fully human sensation of desire bidden hither and come.