Wedding Song Of The Ozarks

Going back over the roads that wind to
Eureka Springs
where you loved me and
could no longer stand to love me
The oak trees are alive and they don’t believe you
hating
the nature of your own and others existence
Ronnie Milsap playing
playing fertile tones across these blue hills
well, green hills
My three best friends have since married
found partners to take their hands
The wedding song of your body
denies it
deny it
deny the moon in the west in the night
skirting the legends and ghosts of the Ozarks
The water skiing redneck who failed as a father
but turned the Earth’s holy water to sunlight

The questing of Space that is torn from our
body
We cannot lust now ’til there is perfection
The perfection tis gone
You chase it
You chase it

On Kraken Mare

Damn, they want to send a space submarine
to the methane sea of Titan by 2040.

I’ll be 63 years old then, if I make it that long.

I’d like to be onboard that submarine.

One would need to be fearless.

What if they encountered some strange
and gargantuan creature?

I believe in such a situation I would be fearless.

One would have no other choice, being
886 million miles away from home.

All my life I’ve had this feeling of some
form of galactic fearlessness.

I guess this is what it’s for, a space
submarine trip to one of Saturn’s moons.

It could also be faith, faith in an ageless
Universe.

An agelessness that destroys myths and fears
and leaves possible every iteration of every
physical arrangement,
for always
and for this always to always be again.

There Isn’t

There isn’t anything, any day, any freighter
to the Sea

There isn’t

any night was born to be in winter

Over Crown Heights, Brooklyn

her laughter drops upon the dead gray stairs
I first helped her

to the rooftop the cold ass air crimped her lips

with every puff of her cigarette

she let go to the city what would become poetry
in an ancient, everlasting moment

the manner of stone

that frames me, gives me farmhouses, trees,
New England mountains and orchards

that I remember

There isn’t, there isn’t anything, anywhere, in the
schoolyards back there

Power Lust

there are things i don’t understand

we were bonded bacterially

i’m fairly sure the unification of some sort of
bacterial ecosystem
had something to do with our draw and lust
toward each other

something like that

>>
it was a power lust, a power lust

the joining of two or even multiple bacterial
kingdoms

Locholai Poem Of Body

The poem of the body

You, I made in silence

Your eyes hold the lights of every
baroque room ever entered

The air tries to talk and cover your figure
but your shape is uncontainable,
statuesque and curved,
rustic long-endured perfection from the
old world,
mountain roads of mud for horse carts

Supsense always the nature of your presence
The sweet kissed tension near your mouth

Your lips are stones that the Earth
as the Sea
lashes at and they turn men to boys
who wonder
who brought all these pebbles to the edge
of these far off shores

These shores laid out to gray skies at the
end of the world

Our days set out near to die

I’d fallen in hotels your soft blouse in my
hand
to bed
your brunette strands break the dour moments
of funerals and mourners

I admit I mourn now, but still I drink white
wine in the spring to honor your passing
to clasp down on my heart
to keep hold of
what May believes continues to exist

On Once Loved The Ocean

Only your voice
like the rigging of sails on seas
it takes its time and it fills me
with the embrace of the blue out here.

The madness of the fish
makes me swim and eat,
makes me get to know the cats
walking the planks and bow.

These cats sit here with me in the sun.
Their chores are done.
Their breath smells as earth and hay.
I move away as the twilight makes paintings
on the water
similar to the philosophical narratives
you often told,
picking your words like a child picking candy
in a candy store back in Scotland.

But when darkness comes to cuddle its
chilly bones
I draw those double-coated cats near
and remember the land, the earth,

so I remember you once loved and your stance
was like the ocean of the North Atlantic

The Air, The Air

I believed in you like the sun.

Magnanimous, significant,
always to return,
but the sun comes and goes,
has its faint winter days
and skeptical days of rain.

I should have believed in you like air.

Always there, regardless.

That is how I suffocate now,
always there.
That is where you go with me,
always there.

The air.

The air outside a bus in Washington.
The reflection of myself alone in
the window.
The scent of summer’s grass brush death.

The air inside a stagnant bedroom,
two thousand miles away from
the islands of Washington,
dirty clothes are with.
The air.
The air and sun are there.

Volume Of The Future

Today I want to go into the caves
on the Isle of Lesbos with you

only so we can come out of the cave
together
under the blue sky of the Aegean

and walking together
over rocky terrain
we continue where we last left off

in spiritual and visceral existence.

The scents of the cave are wet salt
and the dampness of years
left a couple trillion stars ago.

Ships in port forget the afternoon
and remember only the Sea.

The Sea is the expanse of your love.
It calls out to the Earth.
It knows it’s known in the cosmos
where the black night is the illusion
of nothing.

So
we lose memory to remember the past
and to learn the volume of the future.

We wear jean shorts and sneakers
as we walk down to the docks.
Our toes are made of dust.

Your hair reminds me of grapes.
Your name is someone else’s.

The Existential Faith

I have seen this autumnal moon in daylight

above blue orbs
something soars, flocks of larks making off
to the south.

You are my lark of the flock of brunette locks

busty and fertile
is the bust of your hair

lust is the dirt of the yellow fields underneath
the moon.

My hands made your hips make me new
every morning of the three thousand days we
lived together.

Now it is the full moon in daylight that draws
your body and cultured breath
on the walls of my beating heart

the tepid, tepid beats of survival which find
small hopes in the nothingness above.

For love is when the nothingness and the every-
thing believe as though one.

Panspermia The Martian Flowers

The Martian flowers turned on their eyes
turned on their eyes and looked for you
born from red and crushing yellow skies
they rose to bloom and turned to blue

Beneath the temple sacred night
between the ancient stones they grew
gave up on views of vanished oceans
left the vacant learning places
turned to gravity to turn to motion
to explore the timeless pulse of space

Transported from rust and dust to stars
rained down on distant planets
found their seeds now in your earth
to open their memories in your heart