Raw lasagna cracking from the kitchen (cleaned yesterday)
Cracking through the wind storm rattling windows
And cracking through the dust scurry spiders.
I retail some content time at age eleven
When I went leaf scooping up mountains to my eyes
And felt things for the first time in both our youths
felt things, pure, through my fingers
and was cold, pure, through my skin.
And this was all to be my guts when I learned of people;
Somehow soup for lunch seems to say it all. '

Each day and aging, like peering back through so many drawn silk curtains
And each day another is added and each night it is drawn:

FREEDOM

Standing in the thickening fog until you’re almost underwater.
Then one day, running up the mountainsides

Sometimes seeing something so far left unseed

Or something as yet unknown to me,

But only sharing as much as a one way drawing.

’ Crumpled thoughts and drying mountain things collect on my desk.
Evenings spent (like after dinners or, sometimes, before dream)
Just looking at the pictures in my parent’s magazines.

And then one day

Feet screaming up the mountainsides,

Frantimlly prying for something yet unfound,

Maybe learning where to look

But still like trying to be raunchy by spitting on the curb,

But it just dangles from your lip and slogs out onto your chest.
Walking home, nasty boots, and being mean.

Doing dishes after silent dinners

And watching the limp noodles sogging down the drain

To slide, mucus like, underneath the city.

november

sooner twilights spring up
without notice through the
crackles

of the swift wind

as longly shadows

huddle together

- - David Mura

Event 1/10/71

-.assemble and transport a small g0lfbag,a lowood, a 4-wood,

a pitching wedge

.30 cal. m-l carbine, a loaded 30 round magazine, assorted tees
and torn up score cards,

and the last page of dubliners by jamesjoyce (viking compass ed.)
~ to room number five hundred ten at seven hundred seventy
lake merced boulevard in the phoenix city

assemble carbine in the hallway outside of your objective

load magazine, chamber one round, take safety off,

release magazine, eject chambered round, retrieve same round,
leave page in room

pace the distance from the objective to your transportation,
return home,

repeat step A

release magazine, eject chambered round, retrieve same round,
place these two rounds in a separate magazine,

think how a crime of passion fruits could be best served by
acerbic gravensteins in your right hand . . .

but most importantly, (placing your dam card here)

don't confuse step A with your stop/ end statement;

otherwise a STEP A. results:

where the infinite operation is rounded off to the nearest decimal
and decimals are seen in time

as progressing by tens

or for more familiar and common situations

as decimal fractions

when you miss a day or two milliseconds

.between periods.

and you never reach FREEDOM.

- Steven Goddard

Constrictions

Shipwrecked in the parched valleys of my never mind

I lay nestled in the corrugated convolutions of some memories,
Grating through the hut-nus of those trodden years.

There was some fury that ground, turbulent

Beneath me.

I set my breaking waves to slowly sculpt away the floor

And, oh god, never to return,

My rippled sand sifted softly out the ocean door.

, Steven Goddard

Walking beside October’s grip cold sun

In bitter thoughts of evenings cloaked:
None can see me rape the tree’s tight burl.
Soil ﬂesh and clinging-gasket eyes
Sometimes women looked at me,

Their smoky glances talked away.

I could no longer speak,

Only open wide.

Sitting pristine still

At dinner, perhaps, they could never know
I sceamed desirous and in ripping tissue,
Reconstructed and formed so lovinglyl

On two three four, opened windows, gazing

No one there.

When at last I touched she was winter stone cold.
Butt snapped hard to the pavement,

The ember laughs, superior.

Wandering entities meet

Dir dusty ladders dangling,
Precarious,

Between us,

Grotesque

. . . our sucking corridors involved
And clenching, uncertain;

And when we are chained

And rusted, you search me

For some vague hint of that wholeness
Distilled from you dreams

Or perhaps from your vague memories.

Where’s your music? Where’s your music?

Party cornered, with memories sterilized and parallel.
Slumping on some couch

I watched over and over again

The battling purities youthful rage

Cancel each other out

(leaving whispy traces of aesthetic magnificence).
Party cornered . . .

None can see me as the tree’s tight burl.

- . Steven Goddard

 

