Imagine—in front of us—they silently pass. And they believe unrelated
objects are machines
for recognizing the human. And, again, we are no longer interruptions.
Imagine—in front of us—the beginning is not a study. And they believe
the cicada’s larva
reveals narrow secrets. And we accompany: to form, to shape.
Imagine—in front of us—a beautiful garden. And they believe color is the
where we abandon our too sudden bodies. And, here, we are carriers of different
Imagine—in front of us—each word devolves a lexicon. And they believe
shape shuts on a hinge
within the voice they fable. And, here, we slaughter the spring lambs.
Imagine—in front of us—they pass us between nature, between history.
And they believe the door
frame alters the curtains’ flow. And we are a dark summer moving against oceans.
Imagine starlings circling in a postcard’s blue. And they believe oration is the living
thing, the end
of geometric space. And here, in full sunlight, we are gifts hoisted to the vanishing
Art’s desire to get it all said
to all who thought him dead
in the joint & beside the point
Art’s struggle to sing it all
through jazz warfare & tell
everything he knew in brass
speed rap stir crazy utopia
of muscle chops push it in your face
rough unrelenting grace
fierce Art pitbull clamps down
pulls edges out in time to break through
scream knotty beauty
toe to toe w/ any joe
who thinks they know better
Art tattoos blue needles into moonlight skin
junk light makes mirrors perfect
Art’s smoke aches out of wounds
L.A. Art burritos & bebop
black guacamole serge zoots
Central Avenue cat copping
Pepper at Club Alabam
in Lee Young’s band
all the chicks & the hatcheck chick
have big eyes for Art’s horn
A house just like his mother’s,
But made of words.
Everything he could remember
Parrots and a bowl
Of peaches, and the bright rug
His grandmother wove.
Only ghosts patrol.
And did I mention
Strawberry jam and toast?
Did I mention
That everyone he loved
Lives there now,
In that poem
He called “My Mother’s House?”
and the moon once it stopped was sleeping
in the cold blue light and the moon while the wind snapped
vinyl siding apart slipped around corners whipped the neighbors’
carefully patterned bunchgrass our snow-filled vegetable boxes
the house unjoining the moon our yard strips covered with
hollow shells of hard remnants ice and my son’s breath
contiguous static a shard of green light on the monitor
wavers with coughs the Baptist church in Catawba
the only place lit up down the mountain past midnight, someone
waving their hands at something so quiet you can hear
the wind tear at the houses you can hear the neighbor
coming home though he’s .18 acres away it’s too late
for that feeling (possibility) the night always held
the wind is at it again cracking
paint on the walls one day it will unroot us
one day the wind will tally our losses
but not yet the moon not yet