Nomad Ink

Monday, December 03, 2007

live down/noodling around

an offering based on a line of spam from mIEKAL aND

Do wispy clouds give you a different feeling from thick cumulus clouds?

Your tear-stained harp, your cotton robe
the feathered strings that knit you up
do whispers make a different and less cumbersome cloth?

Does the texture get all up in your heart?
What makes an instrument corded or smooth?
How do you work under water?
The amniosis you crave, the gnosis you endure.

How can you play with those ice-manacles on
How is your heart spread out like an orphaned glottule
What do you do when the red line appears under your word, at your feet
What is this impetuous flight into the volcano’s molt

Your thin shift aflutter
Your torn-string heart
Your feathered feet
Your dying voice

Your silver chains
Your bereft throb
Your bleeding mask
Your fallow melt
Your gallows smile
Your hollow cloud


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