Page 6 - Issue 159 News Today

Sometimes, I throw a light on my bloody history and see myself running through the street of my childhood. Sweat and water dripping from head to toe while my body cruises through space and time with great speed, and passion tingling down my hollowed soul. I ran toward the cathedral. I wanted to make it in life. I wanted to be successful. It seemed too hard for my young self. I

Google tells me they are hyper-seasonal, highly coveted. my yard tells me they are hyper-attainable, highly abundant. on awinding drive up a rocky road to the mountains, my lover tells me ramps are ramps. got it. i grew upjust four hours north of here, so why do ramps feel so foreign? i rip them from my driveway, root and stem, and tossthem aside. a proper burial is

I hear chains as they approach. There are other rez boys around, so I know I will pay for staring, but I stare. Boys like us are bloodied here. Boys like Micah and me.

I want to make the body into sky.                                              – Anish Kapoor, on his sculpture Marsyas (2002), Turbine Hall, Tate Modern No, I can’t imagine it–– I, the taut tongue in an unsheltered             mouth dizzy with the earth as it turnsand turns. At least let me be skin. Something beneath skin.

Outdoors in my sun-blasted xeriscape, a saplingshivers with memories of green rain, greenery of jade dishes, of scallion chins afloat in a bowl of seaweed miso-broth, of uranium milk glass flashing in black light, of fruiting olives finning silver, fanned sage-leaf over bleached feathergrass where bees enflesh their bold, brassy honeycombs –in this margin of humid compost

The first day in the garden, God wasan immigrant who planted gulls in clouds. Even the smallestleaflet untangled solar filaments with prudencedissimilar to fire. Did Adam first teach God the wordfor sew or word for plunder?What tenderness people show—it mattersthe recipient is visible.The apple lacked grammarfor red, or fall.The world pulled it.It pulled the world back.

 00 First Child I am not wearing white.

Enter the dust devils, the dervish grasses, prairie schooners creeping in their ruts. Enter sod busters and ploughshares, settlers in dugouts raving in the wind, John Brown in a God-rage,Bible in one hand, rifle in another, bleak whitewashed farmhouses blinding in August light.awl, adze, hoe, axe, and maul, reaper, thresher, harrow,stone boat, corn crib, farrow pen,slop

Polyphonicas a frog heartbeating without the frogand hearts of different sizesbumping aroundinside itit is bestthe sound of the Atlanticentering a bungalowfrom arounda Basque mountainthe old waywindows facing inlandbay’s wind at my backwakes me looking into dirtI go trekand find the coastI live onsalty wafer of aircuts early through the bedroomits rush ricochetinga blue