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.

overfull

On the point of my turn where the last finger of Hellen's hand slips
from the recessed corner of my eye and before me sits the sturdy
Stephen and slim Samantha stirs against him and am I ever going to be
free of you all? is it a rhythm of face and hands and every clutter another
bump and there are all conjoined and too many conjunctions clumping
my view with bodies and brought on by overcomfort and unlonely and
there again I have said too many things together but am I am or we and
where we are is whisped and warbled as if by bird tongues early morning
or with sunset blush and do not remind me of night where y/our bodies
press and push and every day I am less myself and more ourselves slipping
cell by cell into union and perversely I think harder on my single and self
filled with other hands and hearts and thoughts muddled and lapping the shores
of eachother like sand slipped out to sea one night and gone forever to the
fullness of the bottom, tied grain by grain to its old place and
tracked in currents

write the sounds of recovery

limned in hums, rushes, buzz-snaps sutured from spark and the stammer of
just-stilled strings shrouded in their own cast off so shifts the air hollow with

held-air, a sucklung full, a belly-gasp garbled in wound and, quieted, the
soft thud of a leaking held shut, teeth teaching discipline to chin mouth taught
and tongue tucked safely (for now) tucked behind rows and rows redundant
as sharks and as sharp

swallow, rattle, whimper, where once tracked toe and tread together there
now hums only a mechanical threat, a bird braced braked and brought to bear
without one foot foreign

trace where lines light limning launch and perhaps there will be no sounds this time
perhaps there will be finally quiet on the rattle planet
as one more gear goes smooth and stops

I have a mouthful of stars.

When I chew, they burn my tongue and break my teeth and I have learned to tolerate their touch on my tongue so I can maneuver them, burning just the necessary number of taste buds, out of the way of my food, to hold them back from my throat as I swallow.

When I speak they spill out and foam and froth about my words and melt them together or slag them entirely or set off catastrophic reactions that bust word into word and smashing fuse or fis all meanings imploding and exploding like popcorn and gushers and tents taken down at the end of a trip and when they are done my poor words limp and crawl or lumber in their misshapen forms into some semblance of what I had tried to say around the stars in my mouth about the stars in my mouth, which are even now spilling out and boiling ponds of spittle and burning grasslands and dry forests all across the american southwest and these stars in my mouth are terribly expensive and each is filled with diamonds and you cannot have them.

On Trajectory

Tort: grievous mention as sallow sweeps the
face another dawn dribbled over.

Whether weather signs chemical showers or
slips to staccato hail, whimpers will waft an
other orbit to star shrieking satellites.

Great and small, all creatures creeping but
a mm frequency from microwave, infrared, the
ultraviolent twitched and spun looming up
skeins of radio-signal bought and sold.

Inertia building borrowed from time to time on
largess licensed tomorrow for today an
other stutter triptonguing staggered steps like
burrowed ants earthquaked to each other's levels
lanced grasswise looming dew drip dropping
to mouth to mudden and drown.

Deep in ground
transmit rhythms rock
myth signal
called by cellphone
to sick sky stars