Five Apparition Poems


“In this recession, no one likes anyone’s
work, because no one real left alive likes
anything— art depends on a settled brain
to perceive it the right way”— I agreed,

felt bad for him, all alone on a heap of
rocks in the wilderness space of his own
craggy brain— but I said nothing, took
out a cigarette, settled the marsh in smoke.


The masks of human evil are cheap, and plastic—
not really masks, wind-smeared masses of
tissue, fastened to bodies just bounced from

bridges— sudden blindness gets passed on,
the sense of assured doom, satisfaction in the
pain of others, as though anguish were our

anointed element— why as I climb Old York
Road the bridge is an expensive one to surmount:
thousands here hurled from pitiless heights,

as was decided during drinks by casual stooges
over foods spattered with meth, whose own
eventual, catastrophic deaths were not faced

by themselves or anyone else, Kabuki puppet
deaths, Old York Road another puppet stage.


If I see you in my mind’s eye, as my
own blood made solid, a monolith in
crimson, how high you rise into the
blue air must be determined (for me)
by what blood you are willing to bury
beneath the earth of what you are—
not just monolithic but vaporous,
billowing back to a spatial realm at
tangents to thoughts of incestuous solidity,
red, brown, black mist curling around
ins, outs, all to re-erect mist monoliths of
us together, fathers for us two, forever. 


Bones strewn on your
bathroom floor, blood
like milk: to be drunk,
it must come out of
torqued veins, which
are yours, so that you
can add “sneak” to
your list of self-epithets,
and I fuck you for good. 


She astral projects into
my room, asks my hand
in intercourse, of course—
I say yes, we’re in bed, I
take her as she asks, but
horizons of expectation

constrain us into drinks,
so that we’re half-there,
(she’s not here at all, in
fact I don’t know where
she is, or if she is), eyes
tell stories years, maybe

eons old, it’s just that I
missed how hardcore air is—