The Farrier’s File
[i am laughing convulsively]
Cherry Bomb
Assay
Echo’s Halloween
Blood Orange
Echo’s Dreams
If Earth
He didn’t talk to me—he talked into a mirror—I did not have the courage to crash or shatter myself.
BOB DYLAN
Tarantula
I.
Echo’s Ailments
to call something harmless admits
a certain potential
for harm (love is not & neither
is unknowing)—
homes on dead-flats sink
into prairie sinks; gradations
from landslide to landfall
to rock-fall to rockabilly to rock-a-bye
bifurcate the county—
we watch half a mountain collapse
like a stroked face, then we
help the half that didn’t
collapse collapse
Hatches
tallnorthcountrygirl is the tallest
landmark
man looks up her skirt
madams too whistling
downtown
(she necessitates downtown)—I would like your eye
level, I would like a haystack to climb
your effervescence
tallnorthcountrygirl thrills
the bees of the brush
I love you so much I want you
to walk in a trench wheresoever
you walk
beside me
here
I’ll dig it
Iron Ironworker
the world’s largest handwritten promise, the world’s largesse
the largest choir of mouthless, of eyeless,
of coins in their eyes & mouths
the pale ground-dwellers sport
the world’s largest malfunctioning optic nerve
the world’s largest hollow red balloon
imitating a crater
made by the largest volcano the world’s ever imagined,
the world’s overlarge largesse
the world’s largest open pit
sore, the open mine shutting the world’s largest sunroof
the largest fall rollover ever viewed from the world’s largest
desk, the largest sun, & the darkest,
& the darkness that siphons the world’s largest sunroom
Twin Brothers Drowning in a Flooded Ore Pit
There were cliffs to get knocked unconscious stepping from, walls
a dinghy dashes apart against,
many-a-boy’s aqueous grave, the burdens
stirring below, a knot of metals
impressive as the world’s largest iron sculpture of a man sculpting iron.
Your bodies choke on behalf of your lungs, your hands are oars, dumbly, such
castoffs, such postconsumer finitude
in the pit ponds,
a cupid punchout astern—
I can’t tell if utility is always mutual (It isn’t)
I wish I were fine in layoffs (You’re never)
I think the shit of life settles out, the slick thermoclines—
I think hierarchy is romantic—
you become it, it becomes you.
The Sparrows
the sparrows dirty
the windows
with red
spreadeagle sparrow prints
they take turns committing
pretend suicides
striking the kite paper morning
like typewriter mallets
all Xs
they dance a dance
called formerness
Echo is them
