in the phase of shards
I kept thinking of the pictures.
uncle with his motorcycle.
only with the ascendance
of the stage of the nascent circle,
did I realize they were a key.
the door my uncle the key
became: urge to convey
how space impacts
our being as we move through.
way to realize
is feeling of being
in a space not clearly demarcated
or very clearly demarcated on which you trespass.
in either case you’ve taken yourself in your own hands.
the hall is long and dirty green,
with electricity, a space that rings:
all that is possible to do
and what all people have done,
the hall’s walls unfinished,
rough framed two-by-fours.
empty warehouse rooms beyond
Oops, not empty
theres a cot and a kettle.
formerly casual silence deepens.
sound becomes a litmus.
you grow fur and fall down on all fours, sniffing.
suddenly all those funny little doors and hatches
passed on the way into the belly of this building
of father, darker doors,
a blurry self
who will not mimic.
an old drunk who fucked up
sitting quiet at the picnic
of sidelong glances.
noone knows anymore
he was born.
he doesn’t even know.
he’s just trying to eat his hotdog.
sometime in his teens,
he took his first swig of jim beam.
better than home, an earthquake.
night of flying motorcycles,
all the coolest vampires say
the sky is the straightest high way.
pictures behind pictures behind
A wet road
Vignette of Wyoming
A son a daughter who don't know each other
Standing back to back in the flats
The dust devils stir and flick their straps
The shakes mistake
Disconnected phone for a little peace
And quiet white
Sheet falling down drunk
Out of the chair
cool calm drink of a long day picking grapes