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The city, still drowsy, looks to find the sun
Absent–the firmament void.

In each high rise, a soft and sorrowful sigh
Met with tiny footsteps walking in circles,
In limitless spirals while

The rain makes wet the aerials
Reaching toward the same
Still-sleeping sun, the same
Gray and empty sky.

My fingers stretch, my arms are slick
Like tarmac, and sparkling slightly.
I imagine I am some great oak,
Or a chimney,
Or a riverbed,

Or something collapsed.

I long for topsoil where I might plant my toes,
A soft and damp mossy beard.
My fingers stretch and crack
And I long to be taken by the earth
Just as one lover takes another.

The city, still drowsy, wipes the sleep from its eyes
And boards the 10 bus toward downtown,
And still the sun is hiding.

2009

Automatic Writing 11/04

I wear
A horseface
Like my own face
Over my skull.

I drink
& drink
& drink
Until my face gets tight.

2009

Heaven is Humming

Heaven is humming tonight
Like a finely-tuned electric typewriter
Like a man learning to sing

Reaching for the right pitch,
Stumbling but never–

And I with my own humming
Plucking away in the dark
Always stumbling

To you who invented the adding machine:
I lay before you my greasy palms.
I set here all my prayers, tied in a bundle,
Organized by tongue. You
Feel the viscous oils dripping
Down. You

Washed yourself
In the ladies’ room
After.

2009