Category Archives: pome

the mapmaker

   

ironically the
mapmaker has lost himself. the stars
swarm shining in the unfamiliar politic
of an improved
zodiac, the compass pin
spins irresponsibly and moss
grows on
all sides of the oak now. before he was even human
he was able to locate the
insignificant speck of
an egg on the
vast red continent of
the womb. how could he now be
so lost? his hunger
decorates the dark woods with

a fire he puts
rabbit on, nostalgic for the days
he petted them. twigs in the fire
curl like atomic tracks. the forest
feels abandoned. Fall roams through, a
mute landlord inspecting
property at night. 

two episodes

 

Death had left its baby in
my mother’s breast; the doctors came to have it out and
save the rest. Accumulated knowledge
brought the fortress of The Heartless West
to bear against her
body on a table ringed by
internists. thirty years before 

on the fold-out couch on her boyfriend’s porch
she found herself like this laid out, smiling in
the center of a mildly-worried crowd of friends, but
disco fatigue and daiquiris were
fingered as
the culprits then.  

In truth it was a troubling child, both times, just
settling in.

the spirit cats

1.  

the snowflesh massed on kilometer bone. sown
black wet in patterns on the tarmac where
hot pipes ache under her
road. the snow heals careless boot-heel rips
while the valley evokes in storm
an open grave of quick-limed
forms. the crystal flesh dentate
along eurorail sutures around
stacked-up black-edged corners, your
chimney-tops steaming like coffee cups, your
finger trees in sugar fused
imploring. look snow
flakes down in winnowed flumes like
paint off a god-banged
Reich moon.

2. 

the unofficial state birds of Berlin, pigeons, Refuseniks
of the sky, those flying gym shoes, weep
around their bits of
heat, sit like dirt-of-sleep wedged
in the corners of each of every building’s
heavy-lidded, iron-bracketed
eyes. the muslim girl’s spirit cats
bound the brown carpet in quadrants, use
inhuman reflex to eschew affection like the proffered

hand’s uncouth and
jump like espressoes spilled up
or two black hands playing eight-note chord on
keyboard sills to gloat the
dizzy views. From behind
the glassed-out pigeon pies, while
two vast realms (of cloud and ground)
collide, the cats are teeth-chattering mad
at the hampering glass that
excludes warm bird but leaks cruel North
inside. The spirit he tries to comfort

bites