DId I stutter?

liftup throats speak without rote write rhythms with cough

and throatrasp

cut spitting with notes and smacked track lines down like

vinyl trim, cut deep, whipped in circles, screech scratch

repeat

like throats speak kitch clips and grasp passing like a hungry

cough, spasming up soundful and eager for the world

a birthing, a cacophone spirit to eat up healthful air

Latch left open. Is it a beckon? In slips still sticking licks

lipping and all

Another memory cannot be unsaid or the grey lines webbing

to thought on synapsed silica still membered but better dis, better

un.

like a drum, like a broken guitar, like a conveyer belt snapped and

stuttering in terrible strikes tearing and torquing and covered in blood

this tongue this never-unsaying

cuts as into vinyl vicious enumerations:

1. < a name should not be written >
2. < this worlds materials are caltrops or, perhaps, cannon lined before me >
3. < no northwest passage, and when it comes, descendants watch with fear >

Moments later, I fell again and was flattered

Were wires slipknot stuck, slipped in twists, cracks, crevices
left like leaves on back-alley macadam or like strips of grass
pushing up through concrete and where wire whips there too,
humming in machine tongue, march bits breaking faster.

I am wing-torque, tipping, tumbling to stall seven thousand
feet above wherever, and when there is no nose to pull
into the wind, wherever whips up faster and finds
pilots praying or posturing or I once heard them contemplating
their wish to know the place they were soon to meet, and to
fill their heads with fantasies etching lives into the corn fields
and small farms that they soon furrowed - a small creation given
without remorse as a dying trust to my careful abstract ear.

When spun so fine, dust ekes or carouses or slinks or settles with
each separate abandon hidden and still life stammers into muffled
radiance where each separate mote mottles in time - despite painters
preference, so that there will be movement even there, still, and perhaps
tarnishing the colors themselves will trapped embers of passing
preserve and stare out on those who stare and wonder what was
down the hall, or by the window, or under the lamp light, to give
shadow and stalling colour just so.

Historiography

Showed a crawlspace sloping down to floor level, below,
to transactions limnlight spinning exchanges of spiders
and small things each million legs lifting gossamer by
another candle.  Showed with care the fragile link, kink
of knee where joint locks land last.

A snapshot stolen at the intersection of two stories, where
one man stammers in time to Tommy/where one man, stumbling
home, slips in slick too red
Is there remembrance or is it the hoarders impulse only?

Showed a snapdragon mouth lipping carefully a childs finger and
what flower shows such soft hunger, but damaged by rain
another time it will flow up from its roots and be but another
muddy corpse.