YOU ARE HERE
this is a title with no poem —Larry Kearney
in my mind, I try to cling to
an object in an object world
there are paintings on the wall,
but I can’t remember them
there is a man sitting in a chair
there is an anonymous man
entering a room. I think he’s gay
but I try to imagine him
with want for a “careless father”
to be a statue that falls to the floor
while I’m working a library desk
with any distraction to not look
at the globe
he’s laughing at me
while saying, “real space smells like ashes”
you can only see in my face
“a jail is inside of me”
you can only see the job of beauty
is to be dried up or cleaned out
spilling coffee from a cup
there is no child who is that different
a mortal heart because for pleasure
so close, to be deaf. it is not my mother’s
we ran around.
but yet, I found a picture of three soldiers
wearing an old, private wardrobe
the town only slightly stirs
from running out of time
to burn my heart or better yet
to get going, imagining your crotch
is just south of here
an ugly black octopus
once thought of as Russia
just wait and see
my lonely pen at the last fencepost
the range that kept me peering at a map
at his knees
I was thinking Atlantic Ocean, I was thinking
air routes to Britain
wherever you are, there you are
burnt out of my heart, a kaleidoscope
or a group of pomegranates,
a group investigation:
“I am told there are people who
do not care for maps, but I find
it hard to believe” (Robert Louis Stevenson)
but in some cases my photographs just didn’t turn out,
and in some cases it was just a bird dripping,
or peeing in the middle of the road.
there would only be souvenirs
stitched by women
or baskets made
maps are already fetishes
for the finished whole, the word “lost”
a forty five day walk
we could know, what our true position is
in small opinionated maps of the early 90’s
a number of years ago, we have shed
our skin in a thousand different places
now Armenia has made it
with 3 million or so people
the size indicates the number of times
I need to be reminded that there is a boat,
a dress that floats back onto her legs
to make the mind unsettled in a frozen
to be a soft cushion of distraction
in a novel about captivity
to identify with those who
are locked into their rooms
being not so beautiful
with one leg spread open
with refusal to float or be flat
against a wall, “without a path”
in my worst behavior
I struggled to arrange an arrangement
where we obey possible scenarios
and nothing’s left
undone, undoing pages
men who like to play with dolls
with innocence killing something
now or not that gone
what your wrist wraps around
the delicate tender undershirts
in moist weather
the wars of solo names
to call back in the presence of “hate crippled”
but one cannot hate the one who occupies
a spread so unsettled, so displaced.
A Dictionary of Geography
Nothing will come of nothing
like in Chris Marker’s La Jettée.
They fall against the frozen backdrop
of a city, but find they have a love
soon one day, they’ll discover
an answer to these questions. Still
not alone with those pornographic
magazines. Someday you will not
leave me in my historical memory.
Like tragic figures in an isolated mess
hall. I have a preoccupation for your
many belongings, and notebooks
full of ideas. A land in order
to cultivate some crops or mock
sun. Some projections aim
to facilitate fruit trees
on a flat surface map.
It is impossible, however,
to carry a compass around
with you. There are steppes
over southern U.S.S.R.
that are much more resistant
than those poems you gave to me
about very colorful fish.
Like the famine or female
in the upper photo shown
appeal easily to the five senses.
Agreed with carrying a ruler
around. Agreed with several
rolls of tape, to guard us against
something like the ice sheets of Greenland.
Normally, some minutes
divided by them like a violent
wind that rises suddenly. Borrowed
from others near a coastline.
The high tide is higher and the low
tide is lower. The lower head
often called the copy
below. Some individual
landscapes easily breaking down
depend on control. You could
do him like a Siren suffers.
Black and blue the eye
notices the thickness of place to place
The great lakes are an interesting choice.
The grafts that join them should
they jump back onto the train.
What traits do we consider worn?
Hovering above to project
into you. An ode to salt-water
and colored legal hands. A thorn
mingling in too much sperm
I could even get turned on by that.
But you can’t have a real relationship
with reality. You have read
too many books. Where a film review is
your first memory.
Taking my picture, taking over my picture.
What is not desirable, a messy head
of hair, and worlds and entities
that are worn away by the current
like my ankle below.