come back, soon

gold does not rush to pay an arm & a leg for a dress form without arms or legs. and this is the quality of proportion. beyond the neighborhood and markets is a lake. below the fog, the blinding young. there is a story to tell. i sit in my cupboard of a room with hot water and listen for the codes. still waiting for the signal with a finger on the margin. 

Lalopathy (excerpt)

churchlike, we laminate what light we have left over from the mints of these sorry gestures of veils: Evangeline is given as what we mean to say, although, often, only: a sigh; press. as for what we split with a tiny axe, suffered by crease of lip
what smokes, or faints in breaking as fog only can in soak exorcize lucidly.
as in sap, a wasp, what is meant by (a telescope in dust trees). ours a language like Evangeline, the weaver, unwed, with no made up country to be loosed unto, map lost and in the way she wanders there are words as they are, too hotly folded, fly buttoned, leather gloved. legendarily tremoring even in white surrenders they do not covet me, or take and return me: all the tracks back to meaning scrapped for the war (would sell for locomotion all the tender angles but those in one red wing, supple as an eardrum), no bait laid dark enough for the Trappist (to mean) when all that glows is and only privy to a cripple machinist; it was if we could lie well or swear to be unflooded,
but any soft place to convey is flooded. so from wing to reddening where Evangeline wanders toward a louder love as i toward and offer mercy sung like something that was sleeping stung and swell as with and am still as if asundering;
and the shroud, some storm mouth petaling straggler,
have no steal enough, no light eyed pilgrimage to their how and with what or certainty, in certainty:
I have only one but the last blue black fox heart. but even it does not have me.

and mary francis margaret anne marie rose and I in red and dark dresses and lighter ones passed knees for mass wherein the foyer a heavy chest we with bobby pins would lay our heads to clothe and purse our forms of dirty learning for the porcelain virgin erect whose obvious organ for faith ever snared we felt in blouses endangering and no scapular to seal what will become cases of egg teeth,
and for our brothers who had gun relieving in cotton unsurely would guess work and flee into arcades of bad words, their fifteen my twelve or thirteen and my figured meandered and was as a tub watched filling as to not rot the under or linoleum but I was not then for snails or back of hounds as much as for anne marie (pepper jelly), spent and sucked at cane and still can, of what little girls are made

and by caught in longer legs of someone’s catholic daughter
I mean by matthew often and rather latin water
to and in tall grasses and though wonder, lust, would not
by matthew suffocate my one and wither beggar flower,
so long as bays and totes its bruises,
no unfondeling or any mute trade,
no root entrance to a body myth, or gas lamp to study its funeral or drink for its sounds which are:
unable, unbear, un un bear, un uh, um, so as to, so tremble, want to your weight, , so as to your lithe, as we of with and sweat, no make, so we as and cannot be but and want of this, bear able, un bear, and um, so as to say to want to but no.

and by was set to Petal Organs played at times with craft and leapt for powders to skin my dream by waste and swallow our bliss’s blisters and by a stick shift clamoring went out into wet country and knew which veils to pick in the electric fences, after matthew came in black bags and supposing I as a potency would and did expect to nimbly capture valence for my own pink eyed march lion heat
but it was there, in the dark field lit by cattle belly, I dropped my mothers fathers voices bones, a drawl widowed in the grass with ones one good knife and Desiree in hunting shrouds her rubber boots too went and went in day to after spores split lips to shit and we both at no findings in straw or in the barns slow tearing of itself and ran back retracing I first and watched for cobrawater; no white foot for her or my voice at all in the placed I dropped I thought or she thought so shallowing, harbored black bags, went soundly soundless for all my losses were unto and meant for meadowlight and might would wait for words, though preyed over and over, some harshly, to wander back in their trailing gowns and be in some brutal arithmetic too cumbersome, as gun cotton delicately, and too nimble have I been toward what of their bodies is left, to say,
I want to with you in trembling; am after what you would be as so,
but like matthew, who to the war went sleeping and palely I went without my scapular to where I put a choir voice once and found it too savage to mean;

hold still teatime

dears: shall we sip tea and talk shop? what days are good for everyone? holdstillwords@gmail.com -jackqueline

mandrake

a herd of heavy myths came out of the earth in chainsmoke. the crease of and lip. how syllables collect lithe ancestry; a masculine word, paradis(e), drawing in white the background music. allusions, no longer speak, sing to one another, walk in the mouth where shadows are best and keep. sake gathered mud, sunk, so in rocking back and forth, became free. a sound depression, medieval jaws of audiences and on to a better way of breaking. given ember. suffer. grace. suffer grace, build a mausoleum to catch the man o war. a washtub of taut skin on the opera's throat. its clear medicine, made of myrrh. a murmur made. a murmuring maid: a dame amphibious, symptoms of. surrendering. as if to wet birth the legend is to inhabit its night, take penance elegantly, grow coldblood. as isobel in moodlight offers, touch is an operation. pander, borrow, muscle a concise love, sewn over, thimbleless. execute brevity: spill laboratories potion beds. felt of piano. of stockings reprised. in deconstructing we string a harp. perform unravelledness. he said books will not wait on you as the marginalian and her minor choir spoon sick and white as temper. will to document. is of root, theater. to play write prayer, to corset its hairs. slumberous, locket a night shade and lay it to the sound.

slip

search    piece by piece through the eyepiece of your hush and zoom. while i lie cold on your glass slide. glove me, cunning and cellular with my electrons seduced & window skeletons wheeling specimen prayers. 

unfurl my chromosomes.

kalistae

persephone is keeping her beauty for me 

in a black box. fetching from under the ground.

a wake for the winter fruit, its waxing collection of bloods.

the only notes you know are devils' tones, you

sound a ferocity. but isn't your sex an evening apple halved,

an algae bloom, dripped, as low light. no virgin merciless.

and what is left of you, anemones.

section from Penthesilea

about necrophilia and the desire to be inside of. and if the body holds warm one last chance to make it. how common. when women die in sheets beside a spouse. on battlefields and racetracks, there is already so much musk, a smell of it, common law, cornerstone on top cornerstone, realities of privacy, people left to people. how the body holds grief. how one body holds another.


about honor, or respectful burial. preservation of the deceased. the ones that are counted and retrieved and the ones that are not. the propriety of the dressed. we want intact. we want the dead to look alive, we want lipstick and shoes on their feet. we do not highlight the failed parts, what was ruptured or torn. spend some time searching for another's limbs, there is a a necessary weight in lbs, the politics of loss.


about our body and the urge to restrict desire. what i feel i can do and what i feel i cannot. that the myth states Amazons maimed their male children and murdered lovers. how horny can these women be. how rough. a women feels fucked after taking it in the ass. but i wanted it as much as my partner. occurrence. there is a real cock in the mouth of that marble head. there is the way i am told my body should behave in bed. there is the urge to cut off my breasts.

11.october.2008

everything has to be
so deep in the crevices
by now

i have wrinkles i could name
after you

the tears come on often
are strings of broken pearls
that cascade down my cheeks

when i stop myself
and consider everything
i become an impossible
weight and i have to carry
myself like i am as light
as daybreak

but i am sadder than all that
weightier than dusk
wading through my unfettered
self and i do not like all that
i see.

come to know

I reached for the face of
the frank and tender lover I had
come to know.

Why do we shiver in the humid clouds
and cry when there’s nothing left
to cry about anymore?

Everything will happen.

The wingspan of my favorite bird
is not unlike your arms.

Fragility gives good reason
to be disconnected from
the larger whole.

Somehow it never breaks away,

that is how I happened.

Georgia

Stone fruits are relatives of almonds, you wouldn't think so. They cut off his head after hours on the wheel of swords. Myth of the dragon arrives in England with knights coming home from the Crusades. Diocletian, an embittered supporter who had hoped for a cabinet post, shot the late Mr. Garfield in Washington. He lies in the White House unconscious for weeks. Alexander Graham Bell tried for several hours to find and remove the bullet with an induction-balance electrical device of his own design. But the president could not be swayed by his offers, loudly confessing his faith in The Lord Jesus Christ and through his zeal converting many thousands there present, among them Tolstoy and a pagan priest, both of whom joined the tribune in martyrdom. Saint George was then taken to the New Jersey seaside, and there appeared to regain some color, by mid-September his peach was peeled.

South Dakota

When Saint Sebastian was buried they made sure the coffin was mostly transparent so you could look in and see all the arrows and wonder what that must have felt like. "Here lies Jack Williams. He done his damnedest." I always thought that was the best epitaph that a man could have, Harry S. Truman said, and with tears in his eyes. The S stood for nothing, he later admitted to LIFE. The patron saint of archery inherited Roosevelt's nuclear program and none of his cigarette holders. Later, as the clouds rose higher, and the arrows and their silvery wingtips reflected a wonderful orange. "What is the cause of historical events? Power. What is Power? Power is the accumulated will of the masses, transferred to a given personage." Even Tolstoy couldn't stop himself from humming along, and with tears in his eyes, when the chorus of angels appeared behind him, singing "The White Cliffs of Dover."

multiplication of

woven of patterns sonic or rough. deep sea creatures cause an opening of mouth, drop of tongue to click with cymbals or timber. pulling weeds from hope-crazed waiting. i surround myself with elbow room. buttons or baubles lift the earth surface above & below, simultaneous gesture of buttery-blue dog bones. a dedicated bird tackles an older nest with fists as i proceed to fit inside his sidewalk glances. tumble toward fingerprints. what is real. what reveals. burdened by hours spent on a bench, but i take good pictures while clouds are moving. imagining what the right angles of your body are communicating. gradual curve of becoming triangulation, steep for three to five minutes. pick the best picture, keep in mind your unawareness and power. we talk through the language of alchemy, trading spasms & species of rising eagle. the O is a beautiful letter, practical for speech and expression. the O provides a platform for musical deliberation or unhinged disclosure. the current of electricity is in your heart. & i hear it. 

kave

there is a gap

in the pages

where one will take the leap

or play hopscotch.

and you look so frustrated now

and silently cross the street.

i cover the house in tulips,

because the women living in it

are "unspoken for."

and these are some of my favorite things

the libraries

full of dust

and love.

petaler

untwist the work of years of barely-light. paw gingerly. because the orchid and his blood sing for each other/ know what is incarnadine from any other thing, he picks apart his fright in the way he cleans a fish, but trepidly, and places organs in the order of their anatomy so as to reassemble the wires, fuses, with his old blind masonic precision. . seizure: when what he came for becomes poached. nervelessness, gem splittery.

look at Camille

her standing next to the flag

look at her standing in the middle of the ocean

a place her mother has never been

or her mother’s mother

some thought you were a statue of liberty
and some thought this was a sort of circus, the crowd
holding carrier pigeons and popcorn
and some even wanted a spill, or blood

look at the buoy as she balances, the copper color of algae

look at the way she holds her chin

to the crowd

red stones replace our mothers/ that tiny slit between your teeth

water rising and glacial melt

and we will all be new islands, like this one

almost forgot

I went to a museum once,
where they had a greenhouse
and a beautiful flower
that was a huge fleshy
sagging bag, red-hued and
white-specked.
It had an oblong ellipsis mouth
at its top and you could
see inside to the pistils and
the pollen, swimming in the slippery
red.

The flower is a calico flower
native to the jungle
and hangs from the canopy
to the brush; carnivorous.
Sometimes it smells like
rotting meat to trick its prey.

I almost forgot it was a flower.

Yesterday I saw a photograph;
gelatinous ooze spilling
from the deflated head of a
girl who lay across the lap
of a man whose head was intact
and enclosed in the bud of a white turban.

Her skull was cracked like
jagged teeth and the red
spilled out like a
lazy tongue onto rough sand.

The child wore a patchwork dress,
her eyes were closed, the eyelids
the same dusky color as
wet sand.

I almost forgot it was a child.

cradle of hollow crooked arms

while walking one day, noticing how clothing is arranged across your limbs. aided by the weeping & wingless, following patterns of wind. i fade in the afternoon, despite tales. landing planes in sleep. speak with rabbit mother over breakfast, "pray daily, pray breathless."

in fallen fruit the sun ungathers

Roland LaFont rendered vers

l'ouest, dressed in buttermilk

so for once his hands unbramble

as spun figmeat, as loomless

les maringouin, moustique, sang swollen

make organ music in their nets;

but trespass in salt and trepid light on

to in meek the earth inherit

and bear black pollen like a voudon instrument

brine ghosting fish bones a country

of prayers in puddles  rosary sweat

mais les revenants, opaque, undream

legends soiled, (sale os)

armed with wasp metal, mise the okra en fleur

to harvest her coy marron gorge

and so suffer 

some exquisite headhunting

our sisters in swamp seam stress

enbalm injun legumes

in awe burnt whiskey

til tender as T-Hanna shelling shrimps

or ol Nacin, pirogue bottom-dry on duck blinds

to watch cotton e-grets eat their cotonmouths

in fallen fruit the sun ungathers,

creaming aluminum honeydew soot

Wallace, fils, celui seed your Language,

ungalvanized, elle est

a throating of rust,

the winter of a cane knife

teeth of the shepardess

slick in dialectes all mud

under the dock au Cocodrie where Roland, all souled

sleeps, dark as a lily is

imagine her    words   suga r hatch ing

in the rougeatre days of his body

Roland drafts in steam 

un embarcation,

to ferry the cauchemar of his people

drown its ass eye limbs in serpents

and offer to methane a wreck

but what a bone yard this is.

buffalo, babies

and so it was
that the great beasts
dwindled in number.

now they are almost

disappeared

but for

the bones
they left behind.


litter the plains in so many
unmarked graves, staining the soils a darker red.

(fields of fallopian tubes,
uterine walls wasted, where once,
our women’s wombs were)

barren bodies, empty.