Field Theories

sold for poker chips

left cold left thawed left

bent into the yawp

ass up

let be

let air

bones

unknowns

ash

everywhere

curved space

dark – breath

dark – breath

dark – what?

sold for bluff on blind

left choked

left down

left bent

left passed

catch

How a body grabs a body.

Hungry. Even Jesus let

his bakers dozen fend

for themselves once

they got to snipping and

sipping too comfortably.

According to the literature.

Jesus. That first bite.

Its sharp. Its ache.

Its nectar. We’ll

build a fort and fill it

with maple trees gone gaudy

with cobalt wishing stones.

We’ll crawl inside and imagine

how maybe we used to laugh.

Fuck Orpheus and fuck them

for loving him for not loving who

we love when we’re the ones

down here rotting in hell.

Huh? Music?

Anyone ever really heard us sing?

Let’s move this: anyone ever asked?

Even so we sing all day. Even so we pass

our hours whatever ways we can —

We know some folk don’t listen.

Just look. And trace. Look:

What is a thing of beauty

if not us?

Bear where a clothespin clips a nose

and breath is held until —

Bear it then keep walking

toward light. Right? Wait —

We’ll ask them to name something

blue and maybe they’ll say:

popsicle tongue

broken finger

black eye. Easy enough

to say You. Don’t.

What does anyone out here know

of us? How

our tar-stained wings hide

what ergot saddles we ride. How

between our teeth we mash

the fur of maritime beasts. Still

some folk never thanks us

to manifest their pleas. Yet

what is a thing of beauty

if not us? Repeat:

dark – breath

dark – breath

dark – things we do as

we turn slowly blue:

lead laser dots through another

chalk outline; pick up today’s

halloween dress; cry

at commercials; obey; pay

defense department rates

for a sandwich; unremember

memorable jingles; jaw

sandwiches that taste just like

sandwiches; figure we can’t

expect much more than that; don’t.

Some slaves only get free enough

to crouch in Kentucky foxholes

with Cincinnati just over

one last swift river.

Our own acrid smell finally

wakes us. Eras. Halfwoke

slowroll through the wet spot.

Panic. Floor. Hard. Years.

The worst kiddie-porn

we’ll never say we see.

Bottles. Cans. Pizza box

hotels. Crusty burrito

bits. Razor blades.

Mirror shards. Cat puke.

Half a joint. Shuffled match.

Broken brick. Bloody steps.

Lit joint. Burnt fingers. Better.

Wash the hair/don’t wash the hair.

Wash the hair/don’t wash the hair.

Wash the hair/don’t wash the hair.

Own no time. Late as fuck. Strip

the bed. Consider the stain. Don’t.

The murk we blow to cool.

The slop and bang we curse.

The hum of incandescence.

The lip burns we nurse.

The best skin of our lives.

The best skins of our lives.

What is thing of beauty

if not us?

Repeat.