Friday, April 25, 2008

steve dalachinsky


water freezes my voice
my voice a device in a fool's house
no - i say halflit
like a disapperaing souvenir
a portrait of a madman
a lutist
a hunter & a

the critic sees only the bulb that explodes
inside his head
a sort of blindsighted view of the skin
between clock & bed
where artist's wives sleep
swept away by dreams of wealth, space, gallerists
& other women's hearts
don't be so critical i tell myself
all they have are their lives
& what there is left of them
(to them)
my untitled thoughts hang like coats in air
race like a warm winter day
turning evening
trace themselves as if crossing an unnamed bridge
at the origin of the world
within their own geometries & author(ship)

i call to the grave
& the grave answers
a periscope in a lagoon
a liar bitten by alphabets
smothered socks in an overcrowded drawer
my thoughts
landscapes with no animals
left in them

all add up to this:
a body of feelings that has lost
its memory.


he has fattened after
the hunt
a rush hour train
is not a good place to be holding
a flower