by Ryan Adams
city built by people caving in with math, making everything a grid–
so Taxi by Taxi–
one may move without a map.
But you always, or we always like to say the names, the corners, and their
complexity may vary in degree or range, but you like to say the names, they are
your landmarks,
and now
you may move without a map
you may lie upon the floor in tears and cry for nothingness
you may read a book, no watch
you may sleep in, maybe twice or not
you may stay awake and shake and examine dusty corners
you may pretend they have meanings unintended and
maybe you just were not looking before
was that there
is that a sign
when did that little cloth heart get a push pin next to a window
with
a crystal on a hook a suction cup and the light particles dance as they break up
like an outmoded satellite
you have been programmed now
to
reenter the atmosphere
and
become elemental, now
IF
if you surrender like a man does, when he would like to surrender the way
he believes a woman does, when he is a man like myself, and thinks only true
surrender has been witnessed or seen in crucifix–
through the blood and the wood and the nails, hung up on a wall or a hill,
regardless, sacrificed everywhere
… that kind of surrender that keeps you from getting there.
a. one pair of shoes for the walking one will need to do
b. the icons of the ages must fall so you may examine carefully and without
thought
WHEN
when she comes, if you are ready, when she comes, she does the very thing they
all did to you before
BUT when you are ripe and the tree is fit for fruit with questions inside its juicy
silk,
when you are almost at tilt,
that is when, unlike the others, you go small as a danger, small as a swallowing
then, bam
Cave-In
this is interrupted by the longest silence that no words could cover, no diagram
nor map.
You
it is only you now
and the pause.
Hold onto yourself as tightly as you can and cut the rope
and enter
enter into this fire, and pass through, because it only takes once
that one time
and then you understand desire,
and you
you just know, you just know who you are.
NOW
you may move without a map,
because we all know the horrors; pretty shoes and madness
and they are coming
Taxi by Taxi.
Perfect/Seasons
this season
i got it perfect again
understand that
perfect
like the woman says to the man
she will not let in again
“see you soon”
that is what i say to this season
so isolated
my harvest in
winter on steel and steel on tread
boots on feet
instead of sled
this concrete has a mark made
by the hand
twitchy
from the coffee and the slight grin
turned like a cat’s
on the face of a kid
undone undid
this season
i got it perfect again
understand that
shouting
get your rooftop ready and your face
pressed into a wall and a
glass and an aspirin
get ready for summer
withdrawal
like there wasn’t any hot
above me
angels rear heavy swords inside them stars
ready to swing
this season
perfect
The Break Bell
these old songs are the break bell
and the lanterns relighting
celebrations happen here
inside this
my love, at 26
feasts on bloody meat
and cocktail shimmy
for glass root
bath salt skin in a rush
with scrubbing gloves
and loves to dish
a manhattan boat on stilts
water just tarmac and taxi smear
i was like, never here, or something
i bet,
they say,
to her,
when she just so parts her legs
and the line reveals infinite class
forever schooled
once your thoughts go past
her dress
up on the wall with you
and us, we howling fool dogs
with draining cry eyes and fur tangles
and that old dog wheeze
sing the tune
trash can lit with fire
smoke from the manhole cover
every cliché
fingerless accidental gloves
brown oversized coat
driven to madness
from a good home
come join u on the wall
when your number
is not the one to call
you turned like meat goes bad
like saturday seafood like eggs
like milk in the box in the fridge
next to the salt from the bag
of take-in
come on,
come in,
come up
at 26,
she is fit to eat the lion
from his cage
and beat the eagle
to the sea
in a straight dive
yanked prey from his mouth
and the beak CLACKED
just air
come up here,
your eyes have burned from your skull
her gaze is upon your deep
and your soul
is next
you are the mall
no janitor can fix
join us on the wall
and sing the old songs
light the lanterns
a new prisoner
comes
ringing the break bell
Old People Are Raised/Make Room
come out from under the rocks,
you children
you basset hounds with new faces
you snarling gangs
cruel youth in small frames
sharing information
come out from under the rocks,
into the kitchen
in the door well
on the light spot
from that sun
going down on that street old people are raised
gather in the swallowed hole
where the grates come off
the floor–for the third time
it’s all yours
come out to play with your copied keys,
you fearless mist
you spectator analyst
bad from the day you were born
and lipsticked
and lunged with words
muttered in the halls
of schools long past fitted for a damp drip
and an elbowed grunt
with slippers
and a senile bad back to fit
come in,
into the kitchen
in the door’s place
under the bright rind
of orange day fade
burning down on that street old people are raised
and break our hearts
; one by one
so we can die
a helpless death
and make room for the running of the word
Blueberry Sweat
this static in my mind
it reminds me of blueberry
sweat too
from fucking
and how flowers smell
when they accidentally come through an open window
not by the bed
but by the chair by the window
far enough from the bed
to make the light
be a bell
and bell-shaped
and fall into the curves of the pale skin and the sheets
plus that humming sound
not like an air conditioner unit
the big ones behind the buildings
those food emporiums now mostly abandoned
but that low hum
that says the day will be sweet
and i will receive a letter
or a postcard
with simple instructions
on how best i am loved
in the day
for my day’s work
i miss the simple threads to my next encounter
and her heartbeat slow and steady
pure as snow
fucking beaten to bruises inside though from all her thinking
i miss that
that static in my mind
is the summertime sweet
or is it like the swing
teetering back and forth
pulling on the chain?
is the house full of dolls
or is it motherings
pink smoke
and a book of spells?
we can work it we can work it out
we can work it out
the work
is
to love
too much
and
blueberry sweat.
oh my we stole the show
we stole the show
she and i did dear
my goodness
did we ever
in the night’s black cold
coal eyes
and snake constellations
etc. above her/us
we stole the show
and i stole her
she did not belong to me
though
bang clatter
something breaking in the kitchen
yelling screaming
fighting
exciting
in taxis in airplanes
always in hand
we settled in
we settled in
Lord
she stole my heart
for reals
and could rap alongside Nas
anyone
stunning
in perfect Oxford Queen’s English
madness
madness
we stole the show
and the ending had to be as big as that
that beginning
love at first sight
true love
i never knew that before.
how long?
does a heart last after that
once the show is gone?
i am clinging to the seat
like it will play back
the kind of thing
you watch and watch again
or so shocked
you never can speak of anything again
oh my
Flickering
with my eyes
in the skull
back like
they were
flickering
muscles
tighter
than wires
i surrender
to the bed
and
let it have
at me eat
my today
feast on
my bones
gnaw on
my pores
this nap
or
revelations
or
succumbing
to
slippery
moments
either way
it is
something
else
entirely
and all
yes yes
yes yes
then
silence
with my eyes
in the skull
like a
deeper
drink
like
a dropped sink
on
a bounced
check of a day
cleared
by the banks
for
the fuck of it
yes yes
yes yes
slippery
then
silence
after the
clearing
is the
sheets up
and
limbs
out
and
hair a messed
wreck
of a
dreamed
desert sip
lips curled
around
the
drink
soda fountain
pink
and
very
fucking
yes
yes
yes
yes
and
release
with my eyes
in the skull
back like
they were
flickering
Wow, I’m Insane
Have you ever known a grief
so strange
it broke you into pieces of flames
and
hard-boiled eggs
insane
roaming table to table
in a lurch
with a hump
weighed soundly on your back
too many thoughts
to carry that weight?
have you?
dip-shits
fuck-face …
huh?
Have you seen that sign
with bulbs flashing in dust
the airborn soot
trampled under foot
and just gone
like a Sally Field haircut?
Well, it is by design
sometimes
to attract those asses into seats
to watch
me with all that me on fire and burning
as you went
as you left.
Have you ever known your grief by name?
huh?
Oh I have now, child, I have a degree
several degrees in burning
by your hands
when you weren’t looking
with us not touching
my bones alight
each and every time
your name descends from a heaven
too far up
falling so fast
till it drills a hole through my bed
my bed a body
where no summertime is
for kicks
for whatever
wow
I’m insane
but just for now
for a kick
when I stutter
for lost things
gone sailing on brutal winds
on Christopher Cross yacht
hidden under my winter clothes
waiting to be discovered
there are no secrets
waiting to be discovered
I’m just insane
wow,
I’m growing old
I’m growing out
wearing thin
wearing out and rusting
just me, alonesque
living with Hope
that bitch
what am I, 9?
9 again
I
was such a stubborn kid
allergic to the knowing
a love
it came and went
silently
without an end
and yet
this springtime scare
it is inevitable
and
something outside
inside the gray
it is growing
wow,
I’m insane.
Low Gong Goes the Clouds
Bells bells bells i hear bells
i turn off her lamp
i turn on her lamp
still not enough light
she is not coming back
i did this to myself
i call i write
she says all i want to do is fight
i am alone now
one day when the storms pass
this yard will be bare
bare of the trees and grass
and nothing will grow
i am covered
in snow
frozen
but you know
you know this about me
i turn on her lamp
i turn off her lamp
and i hear
bells
bells bells
the bells of doom
and i did this
to me
myself
wow
i hear for now
the inevitable
sound of bells
because bells sounds
right
thatsoundslikepoetrytome
anyways
i hear it for now
the glory and the line
clipped with my torso
when i come dashing by
in my yellow shorts
and sweatband
wait
NO NO NO NO NO
i do not see any of that
not mixed with bells anyway
what did it mean to ask myself
that just then
if i was good for
you know
another “win”
hell
i don’t know
and i would not even if I did
even if I did
i would not know where to begin
about
all that glory
and
what someone might do with that
is this what a rumble with a loose goose
after a night on the town is suppose to be
for most you know without all that losing
on their mind
not on their mind
you know what i mean
is it
because
i am quite certain that must be a freedom like they had
before people were expected to know things about themselves
that kept them away from others in the night or day
in any way
once they felt like a beehive or a readied study
of a stinger’s dozen
with more in the flock
just not in your hair
or under your shirt
No
i see buildings
rising with windows and offices
so much office-supply stuff in them
and
clicking and typing and i imagine people
people in sharp shirts and ties actually actually
typing
