Saturday, March 12, 2011

See Through Me Is This House

After a more than generous run, The McGee-Cirimele Poet in Residence Program has shut down. A spell here, a spell there. Then the great matchstick of the northern-south, Nashville (!) Is there poetry there? Do they have Big ! Lots and 211?

A writing on that old stack of wood:


That which exists through itself

is what is called the meaning.

- Creeley

Spray of town

a hack through blindness.

There is a wall I lean at

and it keeps my sound.

A deck its

smoke and crabsmell.

Bone flat harmonic


brush mumble kenning.

House in it glass run drunk.

Sun badly collapsed.

Sand is coming off me slant

my paper exile

still contains unmeasured injuries.

What slipped keyhole,


bursting into event.

I enjoy cathedral when it


bell salts here interred.

Cooing impostor,

yard mourning, vibrating

air with throats.

Hello House.

Mid-heaven amid the isthmus.

Straight husk. Temple vim.

A dog's heart in me.

Earth church, all I want to

do today is

watch the ice break apart

in my lawn-chair biting

my hand.

Smells wake me.

Plank run low,

the work silent and still any

simple echo.

Adjusting iron skirts.

House is sad and never tired.

I am of a corner cathedral pushes


salt making bones, sand breathing


hides intuition.

Consoled on all sides.

House is a set

of lungs, with lungfish.