Cursif - Archived Blog Posts

[cursif]

(you won't soon ask again.)

each tree is now a gnarl of bare root
misplaced in the sky
(for how i feel, you get nothing
but a photograph. you asked
and now i am telling.)
just above the horizon,
a newborn sun
still shedding ruddy orange placenta
burns through the branches
like old film in a too slow projector.
(and you thought the sun had made it through
the long black night. and you
had wanted to tell me
it was just the seasons changing.)

 

[cursif]

Goodnight, Puppa

how to start the world?
I am no writer. in front of the computer screen (this light--
which barely moves, it seems,
faster than light--
is constant) I am robbed of the power
of the pen scratching angrily
into paper,
the visible cuts and bruises words are
when you hold the blues so cautiously, like this.

how to start the world?
i am no Superman. my planet is not dead (this light--
from my own sun,
it seems, is nothing but light--
is impotent) and I have no reason
to save anyone from this rocky wreck
but myself.

how to start the world?
I am no Ginsberg. I am barely Bukowski (this light--
like a beer is light, it seems, means nothing
compared to the flame
hitting the cigarette after bloddy, violent sex--
is a dry adjective in red ink on a cool, silver can). I am barely in control
of the thoughts which huddle like sheep
in sentences and paragraphs,
words corralling themselves
into the slaughterhouse called poetry.

how to start the world?
I am no lover. the fire in my crotch (this light--
which over and over, it seems,
only smoulders when swept with wind--
is illusion) is dead before a single ember births
from soot,
before the phoenix can even be recalled and called
into allusion.

how to start the world?

 

[cursif]

detonating luke

i am not tearing apart yr hand.
(this is not real,
how i feel and the fake smiles.)
i am taking apart yr hand and fingers.
like leaves from a dead winter tree,
i have laid you out on the grass
and contrasted you with the buzzing world.
(this is not real,
nature shifting gears down
into fall, stalling
through the cold.)
i am pulling bone
from your flat body
and placing the dry remains in the skeleton of my dreams.
so close to yr face,
it will not be yr face.
(this is not real,
what you think
as a poem. i am off,
a low drunk buzzing
and someone like you is reading my sleep.)