ANGER

​

1

​

The time is,

The air seems a cover,

The room is quiet.

 

She moves, she

had moved. He

heard her.

 

The children

Sleep, the dog fed,

The house around them

 

is open, descriptive,

a truck through the walls,

lights bright there,

 

glaring, the sudden

roar of its motor, all

familiar impact

 

as it passed

so close. He

hated it.

 

But what does she answer.

She moves

away from it.

 

In all they save,

in the way of his saving

the clutter, the accumulation

 

of the expected disorder—

as if each dirtiness,

each blot, blurred

 

happily, gave

purpose, happily—

she is not enough there.

 

He is angry. His

face grows—as if

a moon rose

 

of black light,

convulsively darkening,

as if life were black.

 

It is black.

It is an open

hole of horror, of

 

nothing as if not

enough there is

nothing. A pit—

 

which he recognizes,

familiar, sees

the use in, a hole

 

for anger and

fills it

with himself,

 

yet watches on

the edge of it,

as if she were

 

not to be pulled in,

a hand could

stop him. Then

 

as the shouting

grows and grows

louder and louder

 

with spaces

of the same open

silence, the darkness,

 

in and out, him-

self between them,

stands empty and

 

holding out his

hands to both

now screaming

 

it cannot be

the same, she

waits in the one

 

while the other

moans in the hole

in the floor, in the wall.

 

2

 

Is there some odor

which is anger,

 

a face

which is rage.

 

I think I think

but find myself in it.

 

The pattern

is only resemblance.

 

I cannot see myself

but as what I see, an

 

object but a man,

with lust for forgiveness,

 

raging, from that vantage,

secure in the purposed,

 

double, split.

Is it merely intention,

 

a sign quickly adapted,

shifted to make

a horrible place

for self-satisfaction.

 

I rage,

I rage, I rage.

 

3

 

You did it,

and didn’t want to,

 

and it was simple.

You were not involved,

 

even if your head was cut off,

or each finger

 

twisted

from its shape until it broke,

 

and you screamed too

with the other, in pleasure.

 

4

 

Face me,

in the dark,

my face. See me.

 

It is the cry

I hear all

my life, my own

 

voice, my

eye locked in

self sight, not

 

the world what

ever it is

but the close

 

breathing beside

me I reach out

for, feel as

warmth in

my hands then

returned. The rage

 

is what I

want, what

I cannot give

 

to myself, of

myself, in

the world.

 

5

 

After, what

is it—as if

the sun had

 

been wrong to return,

again.  It was

another life, a

 

day, some

time gone, it

was done.

 

But also

the pleasure, the

opening

 

relief

even in what

was so hated.

 

6

 

All you say you want

to do to yourself you do

to someone else as yourself

 

and we sit between you

waiting for whatever will

be at last the real end of you.

​

​

DISTANCE

 

1

 

Hadn’t I been

aching, for you,

seeing the

 

light there, such

shape as

it makes.

 

The bodies

fall, have

fallen, open.

 

Isn’t it such

a form one

wants, the warmth

 

as sun

light on you.

But what

 

were you, where,

one thought, I

was always

 

thinking. The

mind itself,

impulse, of form

 

last realized,

nothing

otherwise but

 

a stumbling

looking after, a

picture

 

of light through

dust on

an indeterminate distance,

​

which throws

a radiator into

edges, shining,

 

the woman’s long

length, the move-

ment of the

 

child, on her,

their legs

from behind.

 

2

 

Eyes,

days and

forms’ photograph,

 

glazed

eyes, dear

hands. We

 

are walking,

I have

a face grown

hairy

and old, it

has greyed

 

to white

on the sides

of my cheeks.  Stepping

 

out of

the car with these

endless people,

 

where are

you, am I happy,

is this car

 

mine.  Another

life come to

its presence,

here, you

sluffing, beside

me, me off, my –

 

self’s warmth

gone inward,

a stepping

 

car, walking

waters on, such

a place like the

 

size of great

breasts, warmth and

moisture, come

 

forward, waking

to the edge

of the silence.

 

3

 

The falling back

from as in

love, or

 

casual friend-

ship, “I am so

happy, to

 

meet you—“ these

meetings, it is

meet

 

we right (write)

to one another,

the slip-

 

shod, half-

felt, heart’s

uneasinesses in

​

particular

forms, walking to

a body felt

 

as a hand pushed

between the long

legs. Is this

 

only the form,

“Your face

Is unknown to me

 

but the hair, the

springing hair there

despite the rift,

 

the cleft,

between us, it

known, my own—“

 

What have they

done to me, who

are they coming

 

to me on such

informed feet, with

such substance of forms,

 

pushing

the flesh aside,

step in-

 

to my own,

my longing

for them.

​

​

THE WOMAN

 

I have never
clearly given to you
the associations
you have for me, you

with such
divided presence my dream
does not show
you. I do not dream.

I have compounded
these sensations, the
accumulation of the things
left me by you.

Always your
tits, not breasts, but
harsh sudden rises
of impatient flesh

on the chest--is it
mine--which flower
against the vagueness
of the air you move in.

You walk
such a shortness
of intent strides, your
height is so low,

in my hand
I feel the weight
of yours there,
one over one

of both, as you
pivot upon me, the
same weight grown
as the hair, the
 

second of your attributes,
falls to
cover us. We
couple but lie against

no surface, have
lifted as you again
grow small
against myself, into

the air. The
air the third of
the signs of you
are known by: a

quiet, a soughing silence,
the winds lightly
moved. Then

your
mouth, it opens not
speaking, touches,

wet, on me. Then
I scream, I
sing such as is
given to me, roar-

ing unheard,
like stark sight
sees itself
inverted

into dark
turned. Onanistic.
I feel around
myself what

you have left me
with, wetness, pools
of it, my skin
drips.