“she is the wind…”
she is the wind you never leave behind
black cat you killed in empty lot, she is
smell of the summer weeds, the one who lurks
in open childhood closets, she coughs
in the next room, hoots, nests in your hair
she is incubus
face at the window
she is
harpy on your fire-escape, marble figurine
carved in the mantlepiece.
She is cornucopia
that wails in the night, deathgrip
you cannot cut away, black limpid eyes
of mad girls singing carols behind mesh, she is
the hiss in your goodbyes.
Black grain in green jade, sound
from the silent koto, she is
tapestry burned
in your brain, the fiery cloak
of feathers carries you
off hills
when you run flaming
down
to the black sea
Some Lies About The Loba
that she is eternal, that she sings
that she is star-born, that she gathers crystal
that she can be confused with Isis
that she is the goal
that she knows her name, that she swims
in the purple sky, that her fingers are pale & strong
that she is black, that she is white
that you always know who she is
when she appears
that she strides on battlements, that she sifts
like stones in the sea
that you can hear her approach, that her jewelled feet
tread any particular measure
that there is anything about her
which cannot be said
that she relishes tombstones, falls
down marble stairs
that she is ground only, that she is not ground
that you can remember the first time you met
that she is always with you
that she can be seen without grace
that there is anything to say of her
which is not truth
LILITH OF THE STARS
for there is another Lilith, not made for earth
of whom it is said / that when she is seen by men
it is as vapour / a plague / a cacophony
of unique bells / straining & stranger, they pursue
her unsubstantial cors thru this world
& the next. She is, in fact, the archetypal
foxfire of the stars
will o’the wisp of empty space
cosmic marshlight that lures us away
from the heavenly spheres, our home
to wander, forever, between quasars
at odds w/ the Sound of the Harmonious Crystals
temple flower of the abyss
windlass
on which is wound
that hope
which exceeds proportion.
Ship-That-Veers-At-An-Angle
White Fox that Leaps over Tombstomes
THE LOBA LONGS FOR REMEMBRANCE IN THE BARDO
Shall we say that the streets were littered
w/ half-eaten food
dry leaves, debris of plastic & paper
Shall we remember the half-mad whores
who walked on them
Eyes black as Egypt: al-Khem
the women
of that night?
Shall we
recall the quarter moons of that era
their desperation
the hopelessness of the wind
that flew out of Dead Center to its
target in our hearts
What shall we keep of the hard shells
of our hands
the cloven claws held out to beg
held close
to keep what ran like sand?
Shall we able to name the skeletons
ostrich & pachyderm
Who will remember the bleakness of this time?
Who will recall it, later?
“I am a shadow…”
I am a shadow crossing ice
I am rusting knife in the water
I am pear tree bitten by frost
I uphold the mountain with my hand
My feet are cut by glass
I walk in the windy forest after dark
I am wrapped in a gold cloud
I whistle thru my teeth
I lose my hat
My eyes are fed to eagles & my jaw
is locked with silver wire
I have burned often and my bones are soup
I am stone giant statue on a cliff
I am mad as a blizzard
I stare out of broken cupboards
poempire 