Con Fantasia \\ Anyone Can Find the Dirt in Someone \\ Love Is a Place but You Cannot Live There
I am in
love with her,
and there is none
but your silhouette to
tell of tinnitus turned
to a chorus of bells,
of my blood become
soap—cut me open,
I iridesce, organs frosted
with a froth of pearly cream.
I am bubbling, a drifting
skybound ring, hollowed to
a sparrow’s skull, doubling
as an offered cup.
Stranger, you must
hold me up, lest I alight
on false and fragrant
cypress with its cochlea
of years to hear me
declare what I would
do with world and time.
Swear me not a liar
though a stroke
of her mislaid
finger could so
Anyone Can Find the Dirt in Someone
In the beginning was the word
and the word was dirt and dirt was god.
Blowing & Glowing
Palms up, eyes open, knees down.
Drop the shoulders and relax the jaw.
I recite the ritual, make sure I am ready,
prayed up and available. Even if you love it,
I hear, it can still feel like work. I am
consecrated to the exertion. Everybody
wants to come to the party, but I will be
the one who sticks around for the mess.
I have seen the smut in your eye
but it could have been in mine.
Rise like an acorn, ready to become
the oak. You are thick wood growing
in the warm aura of a sunlit day.
Occupy spaces fully. Twine into them
and use them to twine into others.
The love we are given is not meant
to be held onto, it is meant to spill.
Stay inspired, grinding skyward.
Do it again.
The skies declare your glory and
proclaim the work of your hands.
Discovered my nakedness, took a reward
on every cornfloor. Played the harlot, but
could not be satisfied. The right instrument
makes all the difference. I have drawn every
line of you and called it love, perfumed my
bed with myrrh, aloe, and cinnamon. What will
you give me? Blow upon my garden and eat
the pleasant fruits. Let us take our fill until
the morning. Great things come, naked and
barefoot. Honest to god, I can’t wait.
Love Is a Place but You Cannot Live There
I came here to be in love with you,
but I am caught up in awe of the sea.
I have even forgotten the waning white
light I used to worship in the dark.
My cheap running shoes are nearly worn
through from climbing down to the
beach every morning, afternoon, evening.
I am quick and clumsy and would
happily give myself up on these rocks,
rushing out to meet the ocean.
I stand on the edge of the shore and
stretch out my hand and the huge, shy
waves rise a little higher toward me
to lick at my fingers. My love is as
beautiful and deadly as the moon,
but so much closer.