Light coming over the mountain

I.

you are dead but light keeps
coming over the mountain
as you awaken from life you
realize that the mountain is a line

and the light is everything else
no color or substance
nothing but clarity for the
last few moments of finitude

II.

there is a thing Adorno said
about poetry and yet I go on
returning to it reading about
beds into tombs reading about so

much death among future ruins
a lilac a little finger a grain of sand
dust into dust but the light
keeps coming over the mountain

The mystery of transubstantiation

the wine smells like grass again and vice-versa

when I say ghosts I mean his inglorious past

his oiled boots reminded me of gun grease

he shot the lights out once—sunsets made the

age of angels immaterial but we’d sit and watch

planes crash into the mountains we’d burn

tires in order to fuck with the satellites and when

he gave us his teeth we sharpened them on

a landmine the shape and color of a new moon

The libra archive

one cannot conjure out of thin air or the dead blue leaves
cannot make or break cannot hit or beat with belt
cannot swim or shower cleanse bathe or soak in acid
cannot put plastic into effluvial veins one
cannot ride or rail or with tongue the color of snail put napalm
in the black-as-night shoes of a former lover
the street weeps inchoate the sky falls in dribs and drabs
summer summons suicide summer summons situation-comedies
about certain simulacrums concerning the immutability
of young parasitic love one cannot conjure lovelorn mindless
mind-numbing mindfuck gyrate to gunplay cannot do so
clandestinely without what I’ve heard referred to simply as the
gadget one cannot wear black theoretical tightrope-walker’s shoes
and just walk into the distance between hazel and hazelnut