The Voice of a Crow

ah, matryoshkahow perfect your round facehow full your figureno one would knowanything is wrongas long as youkeep your back straightyour chiropractor must be very goodbut slip out of alignment for justonesecondand the jig is upeveryone can see that you’ve beencut in halfsevered at the waistwhat were they trying to discard–the upper half?or the bottom?and when you split openwhat will we find?your…

hidden from view where i sitin the sun with the sleepy cati hear shouts from young menplaying a gamesoccer or volleyballthere are courts nearbythis is not unusualyet something about the soundand the color of the skyhit’s me like a cosmic flyswatterand i am tenthereback there i can smell the blue skyand taste the angry bee-buzz ofremote controlled airplanesin my mouth like live marblesthe copper…

early morning walka pregnant moonits descent frozen westwarda thin sheet of waternot enough to call a puddlebut enough to surprisea downward glancean unexpectedglaring white eye

i have imagined my gravity failingit’s not what you thinkif what you’re thinkingis your feet disconnectingfrom the earthas your lead-heavy bonesfloat helium-inflated heavenwardsyou will be walkingfallen behind the dogduring the walkthe rhythm of the toenailson concreteis someone tick-tock flickingsun bleached vertebraeresting just below your skullyou feel itthenright therea sudden dissolutionas…

i wing my wayover the stubble fieldthe grain shavedfrom the earthfew kernels left for scavengers like miceor meand come to rest on your shoulderyou don’t greet mewith wordsbut the breeze animatesyour straw headand it looks like you nodfriend–I say–friend, my visits to you end todaythere is a horizon that calls to meand the field has been harvestedand soon you will descend this poleborne away…

the sausage knowsthe terror of the spinning bladeand the suffocating tightnessof the casing

you think he moves slowlybut the atoms and subatomic particlesthat comprisehis mucosal turd-like bodymove at the speed of lighthe is constantly flying apartlike an atom bombsplitting, dividingburning the oxygenout of the skybut you watch and feel sorryfor how long it takes himto get across the sidewalkmotherfucker, he’s already wherehe needs to behe’s fucking everywhereand so are youand because…

how strangely things line upthe total eclipse of the sunthe guy who slips in front of youfor the checkout line that has the cute checkerand his basket is fulland you have only two thingsthe lady at the butcher counterwho doesn’t bother taking a numberand she is buying for a birthday partyand texts her husband what to getor the frazzled minivan momwho loses the parking spot becausesomeone takes it…

we all come from the oceanorwe are all stardustorwe are the universe talking to itselfnow we look into the mirrorandwe pollute the air to reach the starsandwe hear the ocean in our earswhen we try to fall asleeptaste salt in the back of our throatsdissolve back into particlesandfinally sine waves infinitely long

heads on stickswe ride around likewe’re playing cowboyghosts holding the reinswhat did one horse sayto the otherhow should I knowi don’t speakdisembodied horse headclutching the poleswith our thighscharging forwardclip-clop noiseswith our mouthsclip-clop noises with our hearts

someone left the songon repeatand now it has playedfor a million yearsbut the lyrics are in japaneseand no amount of listeningstraining for meaningsqueezes out any comprehensionperhaps it’s the small sample sizeor maybe the same thingwould have happenedin english

what these lines tracethese light emitting diodestiny man-made replicas of sunswords tooman-made replicas of memoriescrawling furred feelingswriggling from organ to organsoldering themselves to thoughtsspit from synapse to soiled synapsescreaming in sweaty discharge andlike ectoplasmlike psychic snot on a psychic doorknobslicker than snot on a doorknobmy dad used to saywho even knows what that…

flat water churning sandtide returning beachto beach wetter and colderi remind myselfthat this is the same oceani grew up with in californiabut here on this gray dayon this gray sandit is alien sea

the blue skyhas brought out allthe happy idiotswho have never seen the sunand standstaring it without welder’s glassmouths openand maybe this is a kindof spring fevera delirium of summer hungertomorrow will be the last day of the weekendten degrees coolerwith overnight rainfewer carsless happy idiots

on the beach a dogleaps abouta child runs in a frenzyinto the waters at low tideon the sand a man holds a leashrestraining the dogthe child cannot be restrained

sometimes writing a poemis as painful as bitinga fingernailand tearing into the quickand sometimesthat pain is deservedand sometimesit is the poem

we marchwe tread upon the soft groundwe marchour feet sink into sandthe water rushes in to fill footprintsliquid erasurewe marchthe earth gives us upmore easily than a ghostpassing before a bright lightour feet evaporatewe marchthe earth cracksand crackles like bacon fatwe marchand fire leaves not even ashesno smudge of sootor trace of footwe marchonly on the moonremains evidenceof our small…