The angel of Livonia

 

 

 

What I wish for is a river of my own

to drown in like Leander

at the crossing at Hellespont.

 

And then make a warming fire

with Hero,  the angels of heat and secrets.

The snakes will know it's leap year

 

as they count backwards anyways

from death to life, as I wait for

their skins. Least they are free to

not overwork their cool sides

 

and twist their empty penises to the

marsh hawks and pretend death.

And I am afraid to die. Because

 

dying would mean some sentimental

yearning, some scientific proof

of its effectiveness. And yet my

 

ego could live through the plaster

sarcophagus; thus winter softens

the chill sash and we did all we

 

could do on earth but throw the rain

back to the superficial veins of

the skies leg. Everything but comb

 

the hair of the broken kinswoman.

All but scratch American on the stone

coffin. And in the future

 

someone too young will wonder,

who is burried here and

what did he know.

Reviews

[Shmoke-Sifted Heftlande..]

I feel like that too young person in the future..I also feel like I've lived the sensation of at least a dozen intense novels when I read some of your work, dana

intellectually, I could read and review a dozen at a time (not that I'm any smarter than anyone else, I'm just attempting a point) of your poems

instead I have to sit on my musty couch that smells like a wet hamster and just think about anything or nothing and return on some random night where my lament before sleep was louder than a dozen wolves through a marshall stack and I awoke because I'm in someone else's dream

it's all fractal..I'm grateful for the emotional challenge you place upon me...it's genius, it's honest---the kind that is vulnerably worthy of admiration and respect