BY COLIN MOMEYER
now, let us bleed this poem into the tormented
into the wounded, holy and shackled
let at least this poem be a pair of glasses for the blind
a lampshade for the moon
each word twitching like a black cicada wrapped in the flesh of my throat
let us curl our hands around anger and cradle its head in the crook of our arms
and snap its smiling neck
life should be an adjective, like ignorant or brutal
and when life is a wave washing over us,
there among the seaweed and driftwood
i cannot speak of all it has shown me.
within the tides of every piece of paper
poets and secretaries, journalists and children
hold one anothers heads under water and
swim through sunken cabs where dead taxidermists
are smiling and idle, sacrificing themselves to their craft
when you peel an onion and you are crying, you are not sad
how peaceful it is to peel an onion.
let the first thing we do when we wake up be the peeling of onions.
let us ! get home from work or school and linger in the kitchen until nightfall, peeling onions
and eventually we will quit our jobs and leave our families so that we can be at one with the blade sliding over the curving horizon of our lachrymal science, forever.
algebraic gangs in urban america weep for the passing of Apollo from the American media
they clutch the womb of dionysus and bang their guns against the sky, but this is not enough
And certain presidents fall out of windows and leave the scene unhurt after epiphanies and visions of Woden.
native americans are sick again with small pox, and thoreaus aunt is crying.
let us nourish the cells and corpuscles of america's jails with amino acids like equanimity and devotion.
let us trespass, let us shoplift, let us disobey, let us in to your prisons
let us fill the iron smiled and razor wire hearts of texas with our holy visions of a christlike mankind
but whatever path we take, let us take it now, or else life will take one for us
being alive is to be ephemeral
every breath is like shaving and if you are smart you will nick a vein in your neck
and your life will spill out and you will see now with the clarity you need that time is expiring
and! you will die nestled in the conch of the universe's ear, as it expands torwards a future that others will live to see
HERE IS A POEM
for a moment, here, in this open space
let us put our wounds down, unclench our fists and rinse our faces
take breaths as they come, let them pass as they leave
our gossamer skin, bruised and fresh
poets like to say that pain is a flower, i think they know what they are talking about
healing makes a sound;
wounds crackle and hiss like wet logs raised gently above the brick
and the smoke floats away but who is there to watch?
the sun blazes on Basho's earth, his giant Japan
beautiful girl she thinks in haiku's and the birds are homeless
and the bananafish have their stomachs full with ginger and spaghetti
fear and fear and fear and fear, right until the bullet penetrates the first layer of skin
death and death and death and death, right until the bullet heals the path it has travelled
the pyramids in my pocket like a finger on a butterfly, turning right and left slowly, grinding the insects soft black skull into the yawning ye! llow grass and porous dirt
you see, life is up and down
but the path is beneath you and the sky is above you
there are springs farther down, there are rivers, who said heaven will provide? were they right?
later we will be cracking cacti, the rinds raised to our lips, the water shimmering with the moon's luminescense and then just the water pouring over our lips and into our mouths
our pain is a cactus, our pain is an almond, unshell it and teach it to walk
the light is diffuse in my clarity, the light is diffuse in my ignorance