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the love you don't give words to / the love you give away
http://www.sendspace.com/file/tlwbtb

laughingstock theater (rev 1)

ACT I. AN UNFORTUNATE ACCIDENT BROUGHT US HERE
From the memoirs of a flooded river, I steal the words that mean death and drown all the lovers who broke my heart. Suddenly my life is pilfered by a dramatic production of itself. I walk through my front door and find that my house has been remodeled into a minimalist theater by a crew of aphasic postmodernists. The script is etched on the insides of thousands of light bulbs pulverized on the stage by unruly set decorators. The plot coughs nervously from the wings.

ACT II. ANY EXPLOSION BIRTHS A NEW LANGUAGE
You are spectral, adding to the unique spectacle, and you split my spine with one word, and a look, and then a look away. You told me that appearing breathless was a sure way to win your heart, but I don’t want your heart, I want your monosyllables, those murmurings that you let fall to the floor and I collect and order into sentences about how much you love me. What do you think all my kneeling’s about? If I did not make myself so laughable, maybe I could stand up now, and, with uncharacteristic directness, disappear into a hasty generalization.

INTERMISSION
I’m not drunk but maybe I should be.

ACT III. NOTHING CAN EVER BE SAID ALOUD
Then, in an act of existential nostalgia, night falls. The theater abruptly goes dark, and the red glow of the EXIT signs trails across our faces. The silver moon hangs on a black cord, discothequeing our dreamland. I sugar the plastic trees for moths; fireflies flash their arcane conversations. The telephone semaphores its voicemail.

ACT IV. A BIG MESS LEAVES US HERE
Day breaks. The sky above is flood-lit with blue. The breakfast table is laid with a cool lake. I try to sneak out of my life at last, but my shaky hands blur the map. Did you whisper stay awhile? Or was it weigh your lies? I cannot even go back to bed, the bed hops and hops like it’s jumping rope. Why not let exorcisms burn in the sun with the rest of us? The lake on the table is gin-clear and glinting. This is no kind of conclusion. I can’t turn away from you. Give me your hands so you can’t wave goodbye.

oblation #2 (rev 2)

The April rain you wake to puts a chill in everything, the cold red brick and the concrete, the windowpanes and coffee cups, and memory’s residence where we exist as if our crimes didn’t matter, all of our theories saying this is not what I bargained for, the heart stopping for entire moments out of love for another, the bells at sundown calling the Angelus as we sat on the dock when everything seemed possible, and I understand now that plainly I have held you, and plainly I have let go, while my days, fully examined in efficient self-hatred, release their tall echo. I am so lightly here but so acutely there. Where do we continue living now? What if this is the place, not a chosen place but one we blundered into? Nothing can stem the steady acceleration of the past, not even sleep that draws the restless, dissatisfied body into fall and winter, not even the distance between the new moon above and the text below, not even that we are as still as glass in the picture my sister took of us, a yesterday we find almost impossible to lift.

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call me a lover / tell me another
http://www.sendspace.com/file/6icshe

oblation #2

The April rain you wake to puts a chill in everything, the cold red brick and the concrete, the bustling leaves and memory’s residence where we exist as if our crimes didn't matter, all of our theories saying this is not what I bargained for, the heart stopping for entire moments out of love for another, the flowers pointing to themselves when everything seemed possible, and I understand now that plainly I have held you, the careful lettering of purple notes telling me so. I am so lightly here but so acutely there. Nothing can stem the steady acceleration of the past, not even sleep that draws the restless, dissatisfied body into fall and winter, not even the hot, tense dreams we wake from to find that we're still just past the world's edge, jumbled and directionless.

the translation of static (rev 3)

There are stars in cornfields called fireflies. The moon is ventriloquial for the sun. There are love affairs that are like a wind caught between roofs. The trunk of a Russian olive tree is wrapped in chicken wire so it won't sag. A white rain falls into your eyes and eventually your face becomes more like your own. I speak in the language of parrots. These are my contents, wrapped in clean linens: the fortissimo of your voice caught in a feedback knot, a benediction said for me in code, a body broken into many countries, a heart that is nothing but a small fist of agonies. The mute pressure of dusk rises. These are the sedimentary years, when who I am drifts down into the rusty wreck of who I used to be.

the translation of static (rev 2)

There are stars in cornfields called fireflies. The moon is ventriloquial for the sun. There are love affairs that are like a wind caught between roofs. The trunk of a Russian olive tree is wrapped in chicken wire so it won't sag. Any explosion births a new language, although it can never be said aloud. In London, there is a hypothetical museum with a curator who is a horse in fairy tales. These are my contents, wrapped in clean linens: the fortissimo of your voice caught in a feedback knot, a benediction said for me in code, a body broken into many countries, a heart that is nothing but a small fist of agonies. The mute pressure of dusk rises. These are the sedimentary years, when who I am drifts down into the rusty wreck of who I used to be.

the translation of static (rev 1)

There are stars in cornfields called fireflies. The moon is ventriloquial for the sun. Even open screened windows keep tigers out. There are love affairs that are like a wind caught between roofs. The trunk of a Russian olive tree is wrapped in chicken wire so it won't sag. Any explosion births a new language, although it can never be said aloud. In London, there is a hypothetical museum with a curator who is a horse in fairy tales. These are my contents, wrapped in clean linens: your voice caught in a feedback knot, a collapsed map of a cemetery of suicides, a body broken into many countries, a fistful of sugar that I pour in your mouth. The mute pressure of dusk rises. These are the sedimentary years, when who I am drifts down into the rusty wreck of who I used to be.

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baby see how I been living / velvet curtains on the windows too
http://www.sendspace.com/file/mogs10

the neighborhood

the translation of static

1.
There are stars in cornfields called fireflies.

2.
The moon is ventriloquial for the sun.

3.
Even open screened windows keep tigers out.

4.
There are love affairs that are like a wind caught between roofs.

5.
The trunk of a Russian olive tree is wrapped in chicken wire so it won't sag.

6.
Any explosion births a new language, although it can never be said aloud.

7.
In London, there is a hypothetical museum with a curator who is a horse in fairy tales.

8.
A movie wobbles on the reel, causing distracted actors.

9.
These are my contents, wrapped in clean linens: voices collected from disrupted sleep, a folded map of clouds on a lake, a body broken into many countries, a fistful of sugar.

10.
Years are spent eloping from the same barstool. Jackalopian dancing is forbidden.