Open up your ruined house. Fear not for God. The poem is my pocket. The fiber fragment, folded tight: tucked into a secret, always moving. Behind the seam, this inner lining, I smuggle hope beyond debris. My fingers pinch the promise firm. I press tomorrow: shelter in your palm. We read aloud, breathe into rubble. We read aloud, Our ruin now a temple.
Published as lyrics for GODHEADSCOPE’s Patience EP, 2011. Spurred by Czesław Miłosz’s essay “Ruins and Poetry.”
From the far room, a figure with many faces stumbles into the hall— forgets, for a moment, the place of doors. Walls, many colored, bead with sweat. Hands fumble for edges in the kaleidoscope: doorframes in shifting light. This one does not want to be found. Thick air: footfalls in puddles recall when breath was all— before the ceiling rose, upwelling, from the floor— before the earth broke into rooms; doors.*** The dog, curled with her ball, waits for variation in the man curled by the door. Whiskers wick moisture from air. She breathes in rhythm, water dripping; voices in the vent. Eyes intent. A shift in the light. Front paws become palms. She stands; glides across the room; grasps his shoulders. Shakes him. Speaks: “Why are you bent to the shape of the doorway, pressed to the threshold, praying, when you and I could be playing?” The dog, curled with her ball, waits for variation in the man curled by the door. Whiskers wick moisture from air.*** She has not touched a moment in days. Gaunt. Paper skin. She sits at the table. Images assess bones, angles. Melting ice seeps from the refrigerator, spreads across the floor. Touches her toe, tickles a memory— another room. She brought language. He brought colores, spoke in broken Spanish. She painted flores. Thin muscles tighten with resolve. She stands, shuffles across the floor— water soaks her soles— opens the door— more supple skin bends with her steps— clasps a hand.*** The air— humid with child. Two melodies intertwine— improvise a whisper: arms that will need to learn to hold, hands that will need to learn to let go. A breath cools their bodies.*** Drip. Drip. Drops fall past blue drapes; open window, yellow petals, green stems. Strike the soil. Split. Smaller droplets cling to the surface, then seep toward roots. He reaches, pinches a stem. Breaks the flow. Places the flower behind his daughter’s beaming ear. “Beautiful,” he says. She smiles.
Published as lyrics for GODHEADSCOPE’s Threshold LP, 2009.
Bouncing around the light, space bends and beckons toward a dark end with wings become singed. She flew in through the hallway; circled twice around the room. A strange fear did set in, and she darted to the wall. Through eyes upon her wings, she surveyed her locale, abdomen pressed close to stone, leaving dusty marks not seen. Through eyes upon her wings, she watched as another entered: a fly possessed of purpose, unfolding space toward the light. From her mark upon the wall, her wings did see a spark: the fly cascaded downward in a slight pillar of ash. The moth clung tighter to her mark and closed her eyes, averted her gaze from the center: the irresistible gravity of the spider in the light.
Published as lyrics for Matt Rosin and the Dead Raven Choir’s Fire Mouth collaborative LP.
He takes a crayon from the jar and draws violence. He presses the green crayon to the edge of the paper: a waxy horizon extends across. Green goes down; brown comes up. The walls of the house are erected: two square windows divided into quarters and a rectangle-and-circle door. The chimney and angled roof reach upward toward rising, spiraling smoke. Brown goes down; blue comes up. Mommy is drawn with a lightness of hand that can only be called affection. Her hair cascades around teary eyes and frightened mouth. Her blue dress emerges in angles. Blues goes down; purple comes up. A small circle is pressed into the paper behind Mommy's back. The same look of fright leaves desperate indentations in the sheets below. A mirror in purple, his body is rooted in place through shaky lines. Purple goes down; red comes up, is pressed hard into the paper. The monster's face swallows the page, hair exploding toward the upper edge; angry eyebrows over pinpoint eyes that nearly fall into the fire mouth. Teeth menace forward as the crayon's pressure rips the page, tears a small hole at the back of Daddy's throat. Red goes down. Yellow comes up, offering a circle with rays extending: a huge yellow sun in the warm corner, standing witness. Yellow goes down.
Published as lyrics for Matt Rosin and the Dead Raven Choir’s Fire Mouth collaborative LP.