Exquisite Corpse - Issue 4
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The Snow Poems
by Dave Brinks

subzero globs of light

odd by the calm of an empty room
I stare dim religious
out the window with eyes
bigger than a houseplant
while serious godfeet
tramp new orleans into a watery
everything is working
toward the rear of my heart
I'm counting prayers instead of sleep
subzero globs of light
are inches from my eyeballs
it's more than a lack of sophistication
some of them are coming at me
wicked like details
in Bruegel's Les Patineurs
the southern sky is full
of asking delicate questions
some nights I can take the weather
other nights I'm more afraid
of people than I am of roaches
they talk differently
it's a beautiful first class headache
one of these days
I'll figure out how to work
the giant wings that lay folded
in my hands

la dia monde

in venusian feral wonderment
we spread our legs
through mirrors
where our holes make meals
of each other
the geometry is simple
& ancient
ice floes form the fingertips
of one tiny thousand dreams
a stillness blossoms in the eyes
waking up orange mounds
of sighs
any tendency toward symmetry
guides the secret interior
to its fiery heaven
where the scent of hours
drifts endlessly to a point
of perfect rest
the farewell machine

listening to pearl bailey while
lying in bed
I realize I don't need
to see a shrink
break up with my lover
or go underground for any hard
adjustments to my already
busted soul interior
I breathe through a head
of exploded lightbulbs
madjuggler potionists
stir my insides
to a luminous boil
when night's reddening
furnace fades
my hands will form an invisible
bird gesture
and slip slowly
toward the circle of horizon
lovely to be born
and here to have seen it
where late the sweet

the juice knife has its cut arm
and the eventual sex of its death
so too how we have loved
slaved on this tendency
toward forever
from both ends I practice
looking out through the top
of my head
the aperture of a felt hat
makes pictures of your moods
hair hung black to the floor
unfolds into roads
swollen or sad
with the amnesia of being
I picnic my hammock of heaven
in the garden sun
praising avocados & chickens
I am too tired for sleep
and the wet funerals
that rake mud over our heads
and soup our bones into a cold roux
I am more blue than violet
a little weather that traces the bodies
of water I would sail over
if I tripped from new orleans
to the atlantic ocean
brief hands form the mouth & face
and drag the moon
by its feet
beyond any miracle of lies
when all the lights go out in cities
this funeral is from the eyes down
the page of the fortunate monkey

life moves on
sometimes without us
take green for instance
my equally naked heart
full of risks and no speech
I always want to know
where the trouble can come from
the gloom inherent
in spiny truths
it was nothing I had to do
the door was secretly open


the life of any donkey pilgrim
is a hurricane thru which I enter
at my own leisure
slowly the weather arrives
like a new tune with an old twist
for me it began at age five
and ended about 40 minutes later
after the candles were done
the cake was gone
& the balloons drifted away
some people stayed
some people left
it was fun it was clear
I knew where I stood

there is no need to look
for a target -
where my feet are
so too the moss that glows
on the north side of trees
it's a tall mystery for us all
point me to my curse

having crossed the great waters
where loneliness
stretches itself too thin
and disappears
god's teeth smiled
like a thousand busted piano keys
that kept playing
long after the fat lady
got a toe-tag and I took a nap

Lord or no Lord I shall be glad
when anyone comes down
out of the ice and strangeness
we call heaven
I'm all about tough love
a box a whip
a mask with a zipper on it
but pants or no pants
I'm not wearing their underwear

Links: members.aol.com/lavink99

Email: DaveBrinks@aol.com

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