Compression at center

Compression at center


less like a house, than a house

condensed, excavate layers in rooms

to grab at pieces, where they pinned

with last rites, tie ends together

in tether. And we rift through papers

and wan fabrics, and we sigh


and we are drawn uncomforting close

by a house pulled close in gravity

and unmerciful thoughts, the way

a house responds in a dense way

that maddens us, as a way

impossible to let go


the dense way a house responds

to conspiracies of sic and non, some in tune,

some with words bring crescendo

at table. In a place, cradled, “my heart

the shape of a begging bowl”,

where the founder’s catalog

of these objects is an alm—


less like a house, than a house

that now shrinks, or in caveat,

retreats, from caverns of ourselves

visible as cloth on the table—

as porcelain figures, cookbook

of inedible appetizers, cigar boxes,

rubber bands indexed by color

and weight, the ends

of garden hoses; no longer utilized

of their worth


and we compute story lines

in our minds, and we are drawn together

by compression at center. Convinced as we are

of value, collected to objects, as if the objects

were stories within ourselves. With them, we retell

a portion of ourselves that we have always told well,

human as we are


a mattress with the impression that I slept here, or

a wooden salad bowl into which knowledge

of outlier planets spills in gravity, for the center

of the house draws down, under the weight

of perceived value


and the lines a story trail—

couch cushion compacted to hold

in service of bodies that fell

from near heights, suggests

that we slept here, human as we are.

Inside the slept pattern

of gravity, we ourselves convinced

of the storyline, drawn together

by compression at center


as if the house were a depth, and we can no longer

expand here, having misplaced pressure. This excavation

suggests we slept and ate here, gathered in a bowl

into which we spill toward center, as much

as the storyline of the waiting at table

for prayer to arrive; and the clap of domino,

the wine barrel cataract, the maddening

impression, the sole owner

waiting for the prayer to arrive


digs a trench into center; we are visible there

in polaroid layers, red eyed and alive,

knew then that we were alive but in comfortable,

constellated positions, less like a house,

than a house in compression,

extreme excavation method

in being human as we are


where death is requisite, and convinced

as we are, we deconstellate beings

spill in to porcelain figures; the empty

cigar box we carry like waited prayer, the grave

plaque granted to no one who can hold it,

heavy as it is, and no room

in layers at center, gravity

spilling in as compressed

as we are now



Contentment catalog

Contentment catalog


how do you know

a society at apex? books

in great libraries, chained

to desks, and numbers

graduate from irrational

to transcendent—

where holy rage is shelved,

and ghosts no longer whisper

about the exiles.


endless, unmanned kingdom,

where illnesses

become hobbies,

and we chart our ordered time

with an eye for extension,

the Miracle Tool, the one

that exists at the top, pleasantly

out of reach.

Hapless time zones

Hapless time zones


it would not be unheard of to skip

time zones in mere hours—to reach

the other side—


but we are Other

to the other side, with strange rules applied

by strangers in uncluttered offices


to count hours as a standard, so—

it feels squeamish, to be at a negative edge,

one that descended behind without our knowing


we can look as if

they were lucky to have a knife

to cut with, from outside the no fly zone—


but on which side are we severed? seems righteous

to say, at a negative hour. in need of charts

to know we are here, only means


we have evolved to need

these measures beyond reasonable means,

which must mean progress

Between us too

Between us too


at this time, we deposit ourselves

at the end of the snowline


joy! to feel, out of reach—

smooth simplicity, a part


the busy faces of lichen stones

and juniper, half-dormant


earth—let’s not name

it that—are we more sky


than earth? as much air

as earth,

as through tunnels

of the ventrifact—


see—variable, within—

fluxed,       molten,



origin, call to mind

to lodge here,

as each bubble

hardens—   re-member


thoughts shape

us, become

scaffold that props

you up, here

A southern people

A southern people


a southern people,

somewhere beneath the wall

or as a kind of wall

somewhere within the sanctuary

bald stillness of the sanctuary

somewhere inside the foundation

before the cracking of the foundation

where feet walked earth before mention

of exodus, there were goods

at the crux , words that moved

lips at daily mysteries traded

but no longer shared; there was the tower,

only an edge against the black flat

of thunder cloud, to break south

under built pressure,

always about to break south




If she had a sea

If she had a sea


If she had a sea, her sea

is smothered

in the dark wall

preserved in rubble

and ash; if she had

a voice, her voice


chamber of the repeating

image, as any

private gesture

repeats in daily


she reaches

back to pinch

a stem between thumb

and second finger,

gold dress slips

from her shoulder,

illusion of movement,

feet pointed

toward a sea

on the far side

of the wall, one

basket, one plant,

one woman, illusion

of white flowers

on trace of green.

The surface of linen

dress peels back

in patches, as if

watching her burn

over a held flame.



Reference: woman picking flowers, fresco, Pompeii; National Archaeological Museum, Naples

Living spaces

Living spaces


our living space, squared to incorporate

formed conversation in palpitations of lung,

eyes, tongue, navel, ceramic, tv,

razor, the horizon

monumented in the macerate dark,

and talk neutral foray in a hesitation

of moves, bone white, that was a haloing.


The sudden set, the razor, to the horizon—all

anticipated investments in the nonlocal

economy, since starlight is portioned, transferable.


Bone white is a haloing over the plasticized mountain,

while remnant of online shopping

is delivered through violet figures on the screen.


Patio furniture, when dissected,

is new, and sitting there, awkward

to sit among ourselves at times. It seems

perfectly averaged to dwell in the space

upon anticipate silences, of late arrivals

silhouette before a plasticized mountain.

Handing down embers

Handing down embers


gravity does not prevent we are distinct

with each other; fluid blue, paint

against the likelihood of reaching,

and the outer-reaching in strings and blots upon it


we are noisy together, varied radios

working wavelengths, but reaching

brings us to the catalytic canvas, distinct


and noisily circles our fingers

through pools as hues make gold speak

true, mythopoeic fact:


creates, and knowledge assumed from many fires

extraction till we cradle our implements


in extraction, even though descent,

to pour our bequest into the site,

where the hues speak true


and true to our inherited noise, the ember

pours from one hand to the next hand

to the next