Selected Works from STREET METE

These works are transcriptions of “transverse” recording, which (the originals in AV) are available online.

the land is nothing it can only wait
the ocean is nothing it can only wait
but where they meet something
grows round
bears to be calm & troubled bears what emotion
weighs value of
what is a human heart
what is buried in it churned in it
grows round breaks & gathers again
strength that is not its own
only nothing is feels something

how to become it separate salivating round like suckstone
myth to take to bed to camp
along the margin of lives of breaths
which are a euphemism for deaths as we are for ghosts
blue robin in cuidad de johnson new york park bench where two
old-timers hold up
snow on the streets & falling
just those flakes in window waking on
christina walking in on soula & i moving under covers under
as it fell generally over ireland
separated slathering
if no point no measure no infinited line
whatever keeps us strong keeps us ready
nobody is coming in here
no more boxes to open no more books
no more margins words in blur in ice open its glass balloon
from one moment to the next we are tethered

going up the country going up its ass
that are the trees & leaves that fill its buttocks
or breasts or bumps along its way
toward feeling or reaching feeling traveling
to drive to the prize
to get off the train in front of a snow mound
which is a man in potentiality
among the banyan trees & busted up forts
& all the crimes in our orange time
ice in lake scum blue in sky scum thought in mind scum
but oddly feeling at this moment
or this string of them just love tender tuggings
that words have lips

there’s nothing to see so there’s nothing to feel
yellow bough car fender a few houses lit from within
racing toward hole
rimmed trails of blood
drag the carcass in
i don’t know the whole story
And even its end seems dim
but I am in it bow to it

out of things to say to do to keep things going for you
who has delighted in so much
the time has come to sweep up all our ends
 into the honeyhead of the ether
like curious george wander off the planet
to join with other monkey lineages
who will teach us that we matter
that it was all worth the while
join at the head of a pin
even if it must be that we are stabbed through it

chaffed by the wind head stove in
like a mariachi or pipe-bender suitable for dousing
life’s crenulated box top or signet of joy
joined at the hip to the lava lady coming up level with time
through all its torn curtains
what heidegger called
lonely boat afloat in rain on east river
like voice of the dead that is always singular
one voice one sound echoes repeat crown normative vision
how i am in relation to it faint as paint
this muffled cry hallucinate

a lone which is always a matter of fact in city
the one fact you cannot escape even with a hello kitty key chain or
dear dream have meaning
some scene you cannot see without seeming
a series of ellipses
footsteps the way they remind me now
of bubbles rising from drowning man
like penelope dreamed of her ulysses and was wrong
for DM
a man walking home against the light with flowers & a bottle of
french wine

he has so much time to make it & feels this incredible gladness
spring has come again he has a woman at home a child on the
way cats a new at-least-expensive-looking car a sunroof he
likes to take out on weekends when he is not downtown making
money at a job that is not too much or too little demanding
and he walks this way down a street through a neighborhood in his
life walking against time having come late to gather something
or some things this women this coming child worth protecting
worth living for
to make the most of that lucky break skirting the crime scene

Barzakh Magpoetry