Tuesday, August 16, 2005

Black little toads, black wiggly nematodes
slither in the open on the moon’s white face.
Eric hides in his pillow and hates them;
he has hidden his soul in a fluffy pillow,

he has hidden his pillow in the chalk-hard bosom of the moon,
in the dry chest of Moon spilling
white dust, like dandruff or powdered milk or
dehydrated racism in a snortable pure form:

you do a line and then visualize the white goddess,
with her deep dark wrinkles like caverns in her face;
caverns full of nematodes, slithering and spoiling
making the areas they’ve crawled through gray,

smudging all the ice-sheets with whispery motion,
leaving little grains of gray
like eggs that drill pores into the white and form sub-lunar
cysts and imperfections to be squeezed out

like the Thai beauty ladies
steam your face and then
individually extract each blackhead
leaving the face temporarily red, as if pain ashames

1 Comments:

At 5:15 PM, Blogger tiny-o said...

Sorry you got a corporate comment. Those are so depressing.
I like this wide dispersion across the poem of the hidden soul and the pain/shame. The strange movement (in all the poems) from one thing to the next pillow to moon, moon to powder, powder to hallucination, and then back to the nematodes. I like the ease of language entrusted to the weirdness of image.

 

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