if  t v wrote a haiku

the way to happiness

                                                is a good solid ego

& trivial sex.

reincarnation

Somewhere else I am a gob of branch and wind rocking glittery leaf. I am gray field that moves a sea, my body changing light with current. I am the thin ray that bends to stroke an old face. Nursing each groove of it like water over stone. I am also the face hot and rough but loose under the hair; two open palms for its squat neck.  I am eyes closed, mouth parted to exhale sandalwood and smoke.

sarah showed me this

http://m.theatlantic.com/past/unbound/poetry/atlpoets/howe9404.htm

new form i'm trying out.

coffee                                     shop                                         talk

He sits at the coffee shop and listens to the bees of conversation swell and collapse. At first, he thinks, to the untrained ear it sounds like a game of catch. Throwing and catching the golden scorched orb of ideas. But as he listens he realizes that there is no understanding that pendulums between the thin pink brains, and no one is talking to each other. Instead, our ideas, which convert by the heat of our wanting into the lava of language shoots up from our heads in a violent pillar into space. The paths of our speech are parallel and never meet; they are infinite orchestras simultaneously growing tall. There is no listening, he thinks. That would require a cross of or a touch of something with body. Here we are, he thinks, arguing and agreeing on what we think is meaningful or important when actually the hands of our tongues never hold each other. He imagines himself running for office where his platform is conversation alone. He will pass laws that restrict people to conversate alone in their closets. “Only then can our city of individuals pay attention to the winter storm of their own ash blowing down from the volcanoes of lecture. Only then can we read omens when white word-ash falls down

dream II

In my dream, I hold her beady waist and know her by the dense bones of her back.

But we do not chase this story because it is strung too far into the cosmos for us to travel. If I can’t find the fetus of our love, then I can’t have her in my hands.Only in loyalty, or in dreams, or in our DNA.

History streams inside us where vulnerabilities have been cemented into flesh, which has grown a bridge between us attaching us by skin. I feel her moving in the night, which strains my body and still I cannot have her. After we bathed under the fig moon I traded my soul in, I traded in my hunger for insurance.

April 13, 2007

In a first step towards creating artificial sperm cells,

researchers have turned human bone marrow tissue

into primitive sperm cells.—The New Scientist

Scientist:

I give up marrow for her. Let me see her as infant—her sand spots dressed on the tiny bag body. Take the white of my ridge and make the white of her brain glow up in our wombs. Unfasten this helix; tangle it on your dishes under your lamps so I can see how I fit inside her. So I know what this love is made of (bone). Let me see our tiny ten cage her pearly blood inside our frankenstein. 

Mirror and Scarf by Edmond Jabès : The Poetry Foundation

Mirror and Scarf by Edmond Jabès : The Poetry Foundation