Postcard 153

It has been that we are base, venal and mean.
Sure, I have some flesh between my teeth
The world is wilderness.

We got beer-can cannons,
heterodoxing any priest we see
We got streetlight sway.
Red means burn baby burn
Jersey barriers & California speed rails.

Neon baby, metal fucking halide, L.E.D.
Light em up out on hwy 80, bright as freeway night
Build our walls up from the air, cluster bombs and tracer lights
Green is go, pickup baby, shrapnel, fucking IED.

This land is my land, built on venereal,
diesel and steam. This land is your land.
It has been that we are invasive, noxious fumes and weeds.
I have this wont wash red stuff all over me,
on my hands, I mean...

flyover highway walls dropped all around.
Arc light, glass blown sand, twin overhead cam
glass packed -- clear empty and serene

Postcard 152

circle six
sixty rad
symmetry
hexagon's
space suffice
structure strong
shape secure
wields security
all sides hard
held bees know
a bee knows
nothing gets
loose nine eight
three neat hectare
acres to ares
bound by bind
brick wire bar
twine zip tied
secure in case
just encase
cease bees no
he can she
can't they cannot
mark strike
line by line
circle six
Hecate cross
persist no
bees regular
cyclic tangential
tile the plane
tessellate
aegis by refuge
criss cross christ!
whirl refused line
tight efficiency
no bees know
isotox by
isogen beckon
Hecate flame
all this know
Queen of Drones
is no queen

Postcard 151

It is a strange kind of special to be, he tells me, and takes a drink
I don't mind it, and even most the old hands would rather not
These trees here, he gestures before us with the glowing bottle,
I'd take em out. Then we'd see the stars
The trees, unmoving, hold the glow of our woody fire
He had been talking to me about killing cows
I had not said a word and maintained my silence
I wondered about the trees
Every herd needs to get culled, he went on,
cleaned out of the ones got no more use
His eyes were glassy in this outward introspection
I just walk up and do it quick
No feelings about it at all
I'm not pathological. I've thought about it
He, again, brings bottle to his lips
I feel things, but you've got no use, its time to be out of the way
Its a strange special to be, but its got to be done, culling the herd
We sat for a bit in quiet
the fire's crackle
the bottled swish
His eyes were hard and dry, but his mouth flowed wet
filling the dark low places around us
Cull is about the worst thing you can call a man
Make a lot of enemies that way, call a man cull

Postcard 150

My lover's hands are imminent

They are a net of fine scars

My lover's hands disappear in me

Is it they curl with that morning pain

They are always set there like dusty sacks

My lover's hands are concrete

He spreads them out before me 

on a desk beneath his dusky eyes

The desk creaks, a clear plane 

beneath them do not

The morning sun is dusty

His hands are clean. He 

washed them in the workshop 

sink with rough soap

Everything that set them there

was imminent

His hands, my lover's, are contingent

It was a certain blade that cut

this board intimate

another blade, bitter blood

that snapped

My ring wraps his finger. It is

the only ring, right now

that softly raps

That scar was first sight of blood

the only child behind his gentle eyes

The other knuckle strip a cloud there,

a man's weak moment. 

My lovers' hands are imminent

Postcard 149

I am a sea of faces beating a shoreline

I am a spume of seeds

There is no me

I am stone washed to sand

I am the womb's empty recieve

Cupful of wind, bundle of sea

I am an eon of abandoned bones

& shells bleached white

I am tide made dolomite

The intention of ocean, 

resistance of ground

There is no me

I am the light release of fluvial plume 

I am the seed splitting sprig and spray

A bushel of sprouts is not a tree

An ocean is not a basin full of streams

There is no me

Calm careless erosion, 

ground-splitting lust and need

I am a sea of faces beating a shoreline

a hard shelled seed of lust and need

Does rounded sand resist compression?

Does bloom of clouds desire depth of sea?

There is desire. There is no me

There is resist. There is no me

There is comfort. There is no me

There is pain. There is no

Postcard 148

You are a stampede of feelings
Every element bites at you
Drawn like a card
quartered like a long year
Each degree of sun overcomes specifically
a goddamned stack of merciless nows
Is it those old solar demons trample you --
                          primal shadows of youth?
No. Its your daemon team who's hooves beat dust
                                     in ecstasy and pain

Still, you sit in room longing to lay
down beneath a dozen pairs of caring hands
How awkward you read your skin's own glyphs
Clay polished silver, arms stretched and bent
All the cards seem misprint and
read best like art in cave-light
Each symbol pulls at you like sharp thread
from each point your body, head, your heart
And you are a cascade of fingers on a taut stringed harp
You are confounded -- inside out
In truth, you are body-holding sky
the sun, your beating heart