agree to it (close)

Posted in poetry on May 10, 2011 by cbrannonwatts

there’s something to the fight. there is a fight, for

sometime. fists raised, leaves tremble in deep blood the

well of meaning, the well of fear silver in the better disclosed there

,going so far as to huddle unnamed in the Amazon drip

.cosmic rays subside.

in the face of stellar dust, your face sharp with will

,the same dust that decorates your grandmother’s bathroom

shelf. the same dust that speaks to memory. there are more

consistent ways of showing the wall than to scream.

you could build.

short fuses lit in alleyways a continent or three moons

,it no longer matters to the lesser creatures – what means

safety; what measure safety from the cut on your nose.

run now as speech explodes shallow, as ripples through

time and sea more than land, as means magic.

in one hand, she held a broken thermometer. one smooth

bubble of mercury pooling disney malignancy your space

shuttle, one flight left. your reflection in her hand

.your son poised on the top stair

.one dream.

and you a comedian.

the dart of mist weaves out and over, sheets of gray.

tattoed into the moment, embedded as gravel in your palm

, as glass in your elbow, the warm meaning

.there will be “no more manned flights into space,

“the announcer laughs. he just had his one too many.

overpaid.

staggered clips slap your atmosphere. sodden rumbles

into chest and belly, shed and attic floor. you think it’s unreal

that this space you have known, that this space should be

fist fight fight. fist

.agree to it

,agree.

why your hands raised.

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accidents

Posted in poetry on May 2, 2011 by cbrannonwatts

it was the first accident

:red-winged alcohol smells like burning pine

the day after. cool to the touch

,an accident of firsts. no traffic only

naked children running after a three-legged dog

bearing abcessed teeth and balloons filled

with raisins. they shook while they ran

, running murder the first accident

murder of running glass on the sidewalk. sunlight sounds like

canastas and the river, the embankment slapped

by the wounds. too, the other accidents were

blood and summer innocuous in repetition

three passengers later.

it was the second accident

:a half-burnt offering wrapped in deli paper

through which the oils from the meat smeared her

hand in her pocket. rockets behind them stopped

anything before it began, and she almost did

not hear when he said: “if I’m going to write anything

,it’ll probably be poetry. I hope it makes you cry.”

she smiled at the place he could not see and responded

,” it better be about blood and the loss of teeth, hope

and broken bodies.”

some small hell, then. where musicians are mice

,the language of wind across an open flame

covers the night

where is the last moment.

overheard at the art show

Posted in poetry on May 2, 2011 by cbrannonwatts

there’s art here. it’s all full of perversion.

art is full of violations. eat here. fill all violations.

have swift light full of all the damage. the never

words of optical loss. never

your declared speed of light.

fake tits. never is not.

sell yourself books of cheated words.

my wife has offered to buy her own words.

I’m still not for sale. I’m so amazing for me. this is not good.

peacock as a sample of what is called sleep.

a taste of sleeps within the situation. I’m just

interested in work. of that’s a dialogue only. one

of these is a cancer interested in an interview.

that’s therefore the biggest type of want.

do you.

hum room

Posted in poetry on May 2, 2011 by cbrannonwatts

there’s a hum

hum in

the human

room. the lights

are Florida

room in the

human

hum in a dirty bathroom

the dishwash lightening

some cheap storm draping sand

despondency scarred shoulders

figures

move justice outside

on wobbling dollies

her voice muffled

in contralto

in widow’s cotton

the screech sinks under

the door, underground

understand doors

open watersway

a long low pulse

wherever

no one enters

there is life

around and trouble damned

the faucets run tympanum

hold golden fodder

for curtseying fools

blind in their effective

mirrors the room

is the room

in the room.

what we don’t, we become

Posted in poetry on April 27, 2011 by cbrannonwatts

i.

under this sun stereographed

with rain with under this

something moves too fast to discern

you blame your eyes.

what others you know known

other. when moves the fallout

ground, “silence,” we said. always and lips

to fingers the people you had fleet

ravens with were.

not condensed into anything pure not

the substance the staff the mantra,

alimented/lioned/segregated the short

bitter slices the short bitter knot the

bit flatterers hold court, gathering fire

fingers still to lips smelling now of kerosene

of class still. sundered as thought.

it’s not a train

– a moon

– some star, a reflection of a star

it’s not a circuit

it’s not your heart

what we don’t, we become.

ii.

accordingly Sunday on

radio drama partly

cloudy. identity develops rapid

“do not blame your eyes,” and

“do you know who,”

and so on. the results, when mobile,

call each environment

and a few fingers

crow.

compression is not clear,

ownership of your mantra

alimented to cup short lioned

pain; a full period of transition.

fire but met the judge.

environment fingers today, wary:

petroleum cocaine class arrested.

abnormal.

with no training

the moon

reflects the number won;

but,

your heart

what we need to know.

iii.

gathering in droves of the mostly concerned, corner,

have turned eyes their eyes have turned it takes an

infant six months or more we can do it in an hour.

what we don’t, we become.

in an effort to understand, the corpse is paraded on the breeze

Posted in poetry on April 26, 2011 by cbrannonwatts

water moth moth

to water no candle here

lifting one last time a Lazarus season,

the job between flame and wing: what

trials are left the downward air,

the slide as ghosts the sidelines fret?

this is real, then, your body.

too many mantles of frost, coffee

spilled shoulders hunch a love exaggerated.

there is a place your wings repaired, paired

your place and wings, the finest dust

ensorcelled hair strikes the face behind

fingers grasp and failing fall.

we will

Posted in poetry on April 24, 2011 by cbrannonwatts

we will burn like shenanigans,

spritz like Franks,

hiss tornados. It’s a glyph.

I spatulate.

we will gather as loopholes,

flume as dotards,

heave chords. It’s an aleph.

I coruscate.

we will shop like flipflops,

repatriate like Venus,

shimmy trellises. It’s a remedy.

I antediluviate.

we will chrome as toenails,

masticate as mailboxes,

eschew coordinates. It’s galactic.

I pontificate.

we will banter like silk,

harden like tuna,

cauterize daisies. It’s one dollar.

I balloon.

we will brook as stars,

chalk as chauffeurs,

eulogize citrus. It’s ontological.

I form.

we will elasticize like bezoars,

reify like implants,

susurrate goblets. It’s the cardigan.

I blaspheme.

we will derive as alabaster,

solder as peanut butter,

dice boulders. It’s cumulus.

I flange.

we will aspirate like potholes,

gladden like amputees,

control light. It’s one virus.

I contort.

we will.