Currently viewing the category: "Bergson"

 
Is your name Hyacinth? Do you bloom in pairs?
I ask a flower question I expect the leaves to turn.
There’s blood in the dirt. There’s an easier road
To the moss-covered ruin, where for a few months
We didn’t sleep from fear of sprayed guts
Or sudden bullets. It’s all mixed up, you see,
It’s one plus one makes three in every physics
I have ever understood. I see things so.
It’s not good. A white fir can stand
For hundreds of years, but I prefer to lie.

Subway posters with scratched-out eyes. Dragonflies.
Everything taped to the wall: matchbook covers,
Cut-out dolls of Elvis, photo of magician w/ cards on fire,
Bridesmaid’s hat (formed webbing), postcard
Of Dorothy’s slippers. Blue marlins taped to bathtub.

Injecting home-made recipe from her mother’s mixing bowl.
Showing tracks on both arms, obligingly. “Modern art.”
Papered with boxscores that almost glitter. The Ex-Pilot Group.
Level is a palindrome. Poem is a conditorium of words.
We are eating the god. Have eaten the godly god. And belch.
I love you as if I knew you, and my feet itch. Martyr me.