-
The Dual-Shade of Six-Prong
- University of Massachusetts Press
- Chapter
- Additional Information
26 THE DUAL-SHADE OF SIX-PRONG *** Literally, I combed the desert, traded grass for movie-lines, a generation in myself: the dual-shade of six-prong —the molecular structure of perspicuous love. Somewhere in the middle the words got stuck, unplugged, electric blood poured & the wind, the ecstatic math-wind: Deep God, on the in-spoke. I combed the curls, the still-frill of cursive-scalp, & smeared charcoal dust in sculpted letters, air. No, that was a peat bog. No, that was a graveyard. You wrote, I’ve been sweating in temples for centuries 27 & what’s it got me? Some firerobe to perform a rain dance in? My knees are scrub-bone-gray & there’s a dual-shade where my eyelids stray. It’s windy, here. Therefore, grass for movie-lines (fracture, scripture). Friction of lyric’s cellular lure— flatliner green. Focus on the projected stitch-seam. My God-given name. *** sure my parts come in a box all packaged with hands tiny faces carved into them sure it’s aflame blackening [184.72.135.210] Project MUSE (2024-03-29 03:30 GMT) 28 rust then rusting don’t we all don’t tell me it’s a lie don’t you tell me with your eyes closed I’m a liar open them *** A migratory bird masters the dial tone. Language of the electrical socket, the outlet. Thereby granting flicker, groove to sprocket, steady: My refrigerator light makes its way toward you. The cookiecutter shark makes its way toward you. Albeit your source is depleted: albeit my apostrophe is the death of a star journeying toward the last of your say 29 uprooted, in transit, dual-shade— our limits graze *** The river’s knees are swollen like walking me to sleep every night I can’t tell you how sorry the sun looks this morning through its trampled silkscreen face I will inject and pump myself into where I oughtn’t be capable of weathering loudly, effluent superstitiously red, [184.72.135.210] Project MUSE (2024-03-29 03:30 GMT) 30 left superstitiously red pouring down my twodimensional shins, plumbing the dark spots of my cartoon trees *** if you can conceive of a river, rare, unclean, how many times we’ll rush the sea. Fear is worse than it was before. We know less about dying. No rituals, no lore. Dad worked the paper mill. Beds stripped of sheets, my brothers & me with static eyes. It wasn’t lightning tore us up. We bare-kicked blankets, electrified dust. The end of elegy was an oil swirl, colors unknown. 31 It was the thaw told us: grow, in the timeless way. When the ink melted into eye patches on parking lots, & the moon became a skinless grape, & stars became our mother’s words, did we speak of the end? The dead in books shook leaves & laughed when the trees bent out of shape. Conveyer belt jams preserved the night. *** Say: I forgot where it was I was born. There was migration in the epigraph, a dam in the form. The bedtime stories were: Let the torment outlast the fossil fuels of happiness. *** [184.72.135.210] Project MUSE (2024-03-29 03:30 GMT) 32 When you came along each prong received a slightly different charge. Infinitesimal, my six-pronged heart. My salmonfly hatch, my arctic tern, my silver poplar, my elephant seal, my windmill, my troubled teeth. You blew through your milky green siphon & called the rain that fell on me janitor-rain because I once was scrub & jukebox & there would be nothing left to clean up when our fire was through. Not to mention your heart all lit up like a bug zapper— you who once knew how to light on a stray wrist, in the rain, in the dark. You looked right at me. ...