ending of a month

there be bears about. there be hares and the shouts of little children who spring forth through the woods. i've swallowed pouting. i've clamped my mouth so it hangs down but only so.
you cannot know how hard it is to see the sun go out.

there be wolves here. there be old men in costumes. there be bald and furious women. there be incurable soreness. there be the settling of dusts and aphids. i've hung my rafters high. i've gutted the chapel for its shiny objects. its glass that colors the light. you cannot know how easy it is to let the wind go on blowing.

there be needles dangling. there be fast and doglike panting. there be the catch to breath--a latch to knock back,
all the friends who've never settled their debts.

and we come by the way that we stumble.
and the afternoon is long and slow, it hangs its coat on the roadsigns.

you are no horse to be known that way. i am the atmosphere of delaying. i'll post the bear that i saw in the woods while i walked. i'll not cut back the skin there.

Crow I stole

The caught crow is a dead crow. But it is not in the nature of crows to hide or cower—it is in their nature to gather and to screech and to gamble, in the very tree where death stares at them with molten eyes. M. Oliver

A prophet's aggregate

The carnival’s set up in the middle of town, or at the mall dependant on what you decide is more central. And the carnies make wishes come true. One boy with an airgun cut a hole the shape of the blessed virgin mother of god out of paper. The pellets he used were handed round church the next Sunday; they fetched a good penny. That boy was a dreamer though, his cardboard hat gave him away. And the gun was only his hand, held up like a weapon. People milled about him anyway asking for favors. All he could do was try to oblige. He half-tipped his hat, fingers light on the brim.

Sandshark I stole

A harmless creature, really. Look at that face. Look at that face. Look at that

The sandshark feeds on the sailor bold Till his throbbing heart grows poor and old Or swallows him down while he's tender and young And laps his blood with a greedy tongue Not where the upland fountains play Not where the timid minnows stay But close by the surf of the mighty deep In the gulf of hell does the sandshark sweep By the devil's reef at noon and night In the alley dark and the bar room bright Quick as the victim comes to the lair He is clutched by the gory monster there What cares he for the sailor's cries For the father's groans or the mother's sighs He has sought that sailor from pole to pole And the sandshark eats him body and soul In the sandshark's haunts there is music heard And the sparkling waves of the bowl are stirred And the siren's lust and the gambler's spell Are thick by the sandshark's road to hell And seldom shall ever the victim pass From the harlot's grip and the demon glass For at home and abroad through every flood The sandshark waits for the sailor's blood

Singing to the counter

What the voice does when it leaves. What to take from the counter and after signing a sheet to be sure that you will not be adding to the middle of the nation's meth problem. One ID card traded with a handful of electronic money for a small box of little red pills and three packages of film. For when the light does what it likes to around 4 in the afternoon. For the linings of the head that swell and secrete a colorful and viscous fluid. I've swallowed broken plates before. The etching and the metal and now to sing. Now to crack in places natural and understated.

letters to the indifferent interior

Dearest H--,

In light of perfection, everything seems to be less and less full. But that is only an idea at best. And once approached, all of the things that combine to allow for one person to set to rest 27 consecutive batters become distorted--a smearing of imperfections. Nervousness must be kept to a minimum. As must most emotion and excessive outbreaks of light and weather, or peoples voices from the distant backdrop. Maybe it's the fact that a series of imperfect events could lead to something that people would admire. It's a sort of art, a sort of deception.

I hear you have been shouldering a large satchel of complaints. I do not mean to make our former company years any less glistening. Oh what the stretch and yawn of time does to mark things with different light, depending upon one's demeanor. I will not keep instructions in the cupboard anymore. I will not think about the heart as a corridor or what years have stripped the walls of my memory. You are a serious deviant with your speech of the cheif. I can't rightly say what to make of this finding of his, but you had better make your bed consistently and try your sharpest clothes on in front of the mirror to see how slouched you've grown. If you have. I only speak of this from experience.

I am growing poorer by the day. This in a very literal sense and in relation to people. Please disregard any offensive words or actions I may have spoke or enacted in your presence or without it. I cannot stand to lose.

Always yours,
B--