Sissy Fuss

I am sick of fighting
The last five years of gravitas;
An ill-defined weight
The consistency of sunsets,
A loose and lugubrious bearing
Come undone.

I have clung to the hope
That the gods might intercede,
A sword, a shield, a horse
With wings, and an idea:
Somehow I was meant for more
Than a metaphor
In an intruding myth.

Truth is,
We all carry our own boulders
Up that hill, shoulders
Pressed against grit
And grunt,
The significance
Of impetus — a long awaited
Tumble to resume the cycle
In our private dusks,
Freed from the burden of
Light and moss.

So then,
At zenith’s peak a rolling rock
Comes crashing down,
The strange moss grows,
Sick of fighting
Inertia, desperate to hold on —
How can it
As it clings and gathers
For dear life,
Flung every which way.

the world becomes a little colder

mid april,
the last wind arrives from its forgotten country
beyond the undulating questions of the sea, carries
on jutted shoulders her glacial scent, tundras
and frail purple fragments; your memory of it
— at once heartbreaking and frightful —
is familiar, like an old friend who may have
betrayed you in a previous life.

these days
i am held aloft only by this wind, which is to say
nothing tangible: a junction where two pressures
lead into one or one diverges into two —
the shame of it comes later,
familiar as tropic fruits, their skins
lachrymose and bitter; but still
the wind finagles her entry.

high noon,
just past the sempiternal curvature of morning
these junctions manifest again,
devastatingly metaphorical: two paths into
disparate tunnels like tumors in a cliff —
you are haunted by your old life, as you walk,
as you bite into a pear — the frequency
of junctions disturbs you.

an ending
drone emits from the mountain’s manifold mouths;
shame is the afflatus of the little green
in an inhospitable land, what i lack,
what the morning withheld in its secret heart:
a traveler on a path into darkness, lost
perhaps doomed to exiguous light for
the remainder of his years.

on time
the tunnel swallows you whole, an unmedicated
pill exploding into foolishness: the burrows
are merely overpasses, the daylight
marred only by terrific shadows — yet
you are never certain until the light speaks,
fills you with luminescent relief, just how
much the passage will take.


You think you know what happiness is,
a big train filled with steam

and everybody’s jumping aboard
to some eager and relentless forward;

Or later,
it’s the unexpected return of a relic
from when constellations were
still young
and unaware of their places in the sky.

A waiting game then,
for those pistons to tremble in —
that far-off whistle
a little too far-off,
or that “later” just a little too late.

When you stepped onto the station’s wooded deck
there was the ostentation of finding something,
a destination maybe

But you never stayed.

One starless night
you wandered off those tracks
and there it was:
the better bright
of your own backward ways.

* * *

For those days when we’ve lost the ability to express ourselves in human terms.

I Lost Something In The Hills by Sibylle Baier

Every time I shed tears
In the last past years
When I pass through the hills
Oh, what images return
Oh I yearn
For the roots of the woods
That origin of all my strong and strange moods
I lost something in the hills
I lost something in the hills

I grew up in declivities
Others grow up in cities
Where first love and soul takes rise
There were times in my life
When I felt mad and depraved
And only the slopes gave me hope
When I pass through the leg high grass I shall die
Under the jasmin I shall die
Under the elder tree
And need not try to prepare for a new coming day
Where is it that fills the deepness I feel
You will say I’m not Robin the Hood
But how could I hide from top to foot
That I lost something in the hills
I lost something in the hills
Oh I lost something in the hills

Now I lean on my window sill
And I cry, though it’s silly
And I’m dreaming of off and away
Oh I know further west these hills exist
Marked by apple trees marked by a straight brook
That leads me wherever I want it to
Well I lost something in the hills
I lost something in the hills
Oh, I lost something in the hills

* * *

Listen on Youtube.

Mortal and Pester

the tiny penumbra that forms on the dotted i
a wink, a sun, a pool, a ray of manta light

all these and more obscure the crescendo
when wind and bells peal through your heart

strips you of

well you have become a god now

a number embedded in the singular eye
a sink, a pun, a new way of taking flight

less the sum, the sun was warm, when still i
ran polluted through chasms to an open bay

well you have become a god now

in case of hope

Let’s Not Because The Crows Are Here

Let’s not think too much. Let’s not think of why the sky makes waves or crashes down in spray on all the roofing tops, the makeshift mops that our eye sops up with all the flailing floes beside our glacial coves. It’s not night outside, there’s no threat, no whetted knife to rend our end. No clover dove, no brittle bend. In a spiting dusk, there’s a trimming tree spitting musk. Its branches barer than the future bleaks. Let’s not think too much. The crows have performed their plays of thought. They call out in rhapsic caws, their claws grasping wheated blight and clinquant clay. They come from corners, round and white, argyle beaks gripped by cans. They gargoyle atop the tree and give it guarded leaves. Faces torn by darning scraps, they come and give. The new arms grow from where the old limbs fell: metal hands sleeved in cloth. The crows have come. Let’s not think too much. The crows have come, and they are building back the tree they loved.