Connubial Ballad: For a Wife

She wore a pair of danced-upon

navy girl’s shoes and she bounced her

bosom high when she laughed and drank

champagne through her teeth and always

a saint on Sundays and never

spilled food when she ate because she

ate her food so delicately.

She had a dog too and the dog

was tame enough to ride in her

purse and wear clothes that she bought for

it and take little scraps of beef

right from her fingers and knew what

to bite and not to bite and where

to pee and not so that she could

take it with her everywhere and

bounce it in her bosom and give

it kisses and we would watch her

and knew that when we grew up we

would bounce in bosoms like those ones

and eat our food right from fingers

and never bite what we shouldn’t

and never pee where we weren’t

allowed to pee. Not even when

We wanted to. No matter what.

Julia, she, whose mother was a horse or read about and thought that it was true for her too had two mothers, she, Jules, and thought for in loving me to find three, was I or to be or having been that for her in just pretending really was. It was thorough, what I wanted to do to her was thorough, or I mean the planning of it was

and touched beneath her skin stretched down from a point to the bit of baby hair behind the earlobe, tugged taught where the ribs graduate upwards the revealed too-tight thatching of sinew muscle; the sinew grew and flexed when her and my hands grasped and pulled ours clenched together in her hair so long as to fall tickling to my chest, and she balanced upon a columnal arm protruding from the hair on my sternum seeming at times when she screwed on top of me like a fish bent dead on a spear.

and she her mother being third was born from artificial lagoon, her lasso-eyed and new hands to lines pushing aim towards irons, pushing fruitless tack. tack!

that the fish would have been born too as a mother made more sense to her in reading than the horse but then again the fish that was Vardaman’s mother didn’t have the eyes or nobody ever saw him have them so whose mother anyway?

Arrow

 

Tacit history, like nothing I remember,

seems to beguile me

into breathing heavily on her

neck

and ear,

and holding her (me trembling) –  she

the longest arrow, stolen

random from my quiver-ing –  sleepingbag of

baby-cloth –  on

 

string drawn too far

from slack to ease

and I me

trembling and no and

to show my

not-knowing

breathing heavy, heavy

I powerless so

 

to release and watch her

sail – a screaming

siren-wild into the fog

bank. It the fog will clear

around her, she to be

found, no note from

me attached or intended

only strings and bows

snug-tight in baby-cloth

 

or more arrows.

Heidegger

 

I'm sick and tired of this semester.

Old things

Here are some old drawings and paintings that I found on my computer.

THUMBMAN

SOLAR SYSTEM

FANGSTACHE

MAD SCIENTIST

SMART FISH

SURFACE LIFE

FARM ANIMAL