Mark the Moon May

Bitter end of a new moon.
Consider the sun.
Tug on the thread of delay,
a way in which lunar phases
attain fulfillment, a curving
crescent the sideways horns
of a bull piercing the sky.

Ground the earth in emerald
poppies, then pop the sparks
into the sky, sense the Hyades
cluster—stubborn Taraen, V-
shaped hands of a compass
pointed towards the ends of
earth, a westward approach

of rain, embedded in a golden
core of solar residue. Determine
the month of May to be more
fixed than the verb, that you may,
focused on establishing distance
through possibility, reorientation,

season of risk, spiritual
pauses—Stuff me full
moon mouth so I may ride
the lunar tip of your tongue,
close to the point where you,
May, might turn me into an
ocean of milk, light.


To Star a Mother’s Silence

Even acid margarine tastes
better than butter. Saffron-colored
anise seeds are stars, cherished
pearls singing in the grisly mouths
of mothers, a bloodiness in the jaw.
Gnaw on the yellowness of silence,
then tell it to speak.

Chain Son to Autonomy-Day 30!!

Les sanglots longs
Des violons

De l’automne
Blessent mon cœur
D’une langueur

Tout suffocant
Et blême, quand

Sonne l’heure,
Je me souviens
Des jours anciens

Et je pleure;
Et je m’en vais
Au vent mauvais

Qui m’emporte
Deçà, delà,
Pareil à la

Feuille morte.

“Translation” of Chanson d’automne-French poet Verlaine

Let’s sing, lots of long
hits, violins of the autonomous,
blessed man, queer
dunes of language
tough suffocation,
its glum squanders
sun like here,
just me, a souvenir,
just your ancient
jet of pleasure.
jet a mean vase,
our vent my vase.
What importance
decadence of the
parallel, of a
firey death.