h.b.irwin

Archive for the ‘Uncategorized’ Category

caught up in the air : 5.14-5.21

In Uncategorized on May 21, 2011 at 2:55 pm

5.14

driving past the Cumberland gap

that is where I left

just settled myself and looked out

at all your unsettle every mountain

dissolving at the center

with you followers charging to the top

and some of the small ones aren’t even

trying to fuck everyone else over

honest to you you windbag so I left

on the 21st, the holiday I turned

on the cruise control because we

will never see the mountain top sinners

I roll down my window and

see your unsettle so I make

like I‘m tossing a cigarette but

I get one gangly over the door and I’m

going for it hear horns blow like trumpets

hailing from a windbag and

now I’m outside the car that has

been dissolving from the inside out

while I’ve been listening to teddy tell me that

you will never go away and

I will never escape from you

who are always and only a ghost

despite your text so just let me

ride shot gun during that split hair moment

of terror I’ll divide the goats

from the sheep the ghosts

from the sheets with my 70

mph sword of narrow perspective the clearing

is just ahead I know

because we are happening at the same time

5.16

sperm whale apolcolypse

they could fly and breathe fire

I’m pretty sure but you can

never be sure in a dream

boy told me,

“you’re subconscious is always dreaming,

isn’t that cool?”

no it isn’t you fucking fire-breathing

lizard anti-christ that means

the rapture is happening right now

over and over every second is the

end of a small world the departure

of a dead little Christian inside me

and that very real sense of doom I felt in my child’s waking life

when I heard a loud noise sound outside my window

that trumpet is always sounding I’m always being

separated from the inside out

that even though we are chaos there

is a false but constant order inside me and

I’m always last always in charge and always last

and I’m no jesus so last means last

and I’m not coming back for me if

any thing I’ve been trying to lose

my soul even when I was jesus see

that’s what sainthood is all about finding

the fire-breathing sperm whale inside you

and tearing at your skin-bits until all that’s

left is the dream so if I could please get swallowed and

leave nothing but my myths behind that would

be great, thanks.

5.20

nothing to cling to in hell so

roll through the want

over if you want it

want to dream open a net

that nets around your ankle

you think it’ll slip off for the angle

but your instinct is a dead slap some days

it wraps and jerks you up

which is surprising & stimulating & salvation

but mostly the most terrifying feeling of

all new body like puberty but it’s 2011 instead

of 2002 like they all promised make me

up pretty daddy like an angel

blow me up into the sky without warning

just like a little angel daddy

ipsum

In Uncategorized on April 18, 2011 at 2:36 pm

poem

mid-mornings, quiet ones

In Uncategorized on April 18, 2011 at 2:08 pm

When I feel the poetic way

When there is a warmth

from my lungs growing smaller

When I realize I’ve been standing

here in the kitchen

so long I can’t

account for it

I catch myself saying

classes

yeah, socio-economic ones—

and regionally specific

What I mean is

everyone has their burden.

everyone is that burden.

thereisan(x)suchthat

In Uncategorized on March 24, 2011 at 5:10 pm

hand in form of

obligation I feel

∃(x) under my ribs

being alive I

hate ∃(x) in form  of

obligation I hear

her in the basement

rafters fish in

the bathroom I’ve

lived 74 years and

I’ve never heard anything

like ∃(x) fish in

my ribs threw up

the almond cake

right on the sidewalk

keep going right into

the meat ∃(x) stops

hurting if you mean

∃(x) mean ∃(x) blood

across my eyelids &

nose bridge ∃(x) always

looks unexpected

Nature Theories

In Uncategorized on January 3, 2011 at 10:09 pm

no reason
to freak
out about
possessions
out dated
nature theories
it’s just a
fuck for
fuck or christ’s sake

where are my
underwear
I mean the
cigarettes
you mean the
way in
left rightsies–
possessions are
outdated
leave your fuck

ing underwear
it makes no mark
by your name–see
you don’t have a
name just
an appendix
with no
function no
it doesn’t feel

good in there
“you all eat nine
ponds of
meat-a-day
anyway”
I let out with an
indulgent laugh so
let’s make it

fun–it’s only seventy
years more anyway I always
stop in the middle
it doesn’t feel like
I remember the couch
is a wrist in the
room and now
there’s feathers
& feathers coming
out the tear

sick language

In Uncategorized on December 28, 2010 at 3:17 am

get your english
teacher high
it’ll be wild
crazy shit man pass
that shit
oh my

god it’s wild
crazy english
these days say
these parts
ok

you’re the teacher
man just pass
me that’ll
be wild

you know ********? I’m
a ********too! you know
a thing or
two about ******* don’tcha? yo

teach you’re sick
man you didn’t
show for class so
sick man–wild

what you said about
my poem–I’ma
get this shit ready–it’s
all in the line
breaks, aye?
surprise ‘um I
always say

say man pass
my wild
crazy ass
huh? cause you
just have to
get it
well as anybody
else–said that
yourself
man.

no teleology

In Uncategorized on December 10, 2010 at 10:20 pm

here is a love thought, poet:

 

How many celibacies are born breech? Or, how do saints occupy their minds? I once popped a rubber band off of Christ’s cross, it snapped across two thousand years and flung out into a never-ending expanse of commercial television lighting up land we’ve always lived on.

Dear saint, the most sincere searches always end in failure or low-wage jobs. If one thing is true, it’s that.

 

 

here is tough love, poet:

 

Mark it. It’s 9:55 a.m. and I’ve already thought about smashing my head with a brick.

“ Anyone ever tell you you’re obnoxious?” the brick says—glad to have been assertive, overdoing it for lack of practice.

 

 

here is a poet, poet:

 

If you can enjoy a thing, fall over & onto it. You are a paper knife in a universe where solids don’t exist. If you can stare at a thing and it stares back, reach for the thing; fuck it—with your fingers, if that’s what you’ve got. See, everything is rapidly descending  into  dust, and  conspiring  within itself  to  reassemble  into  a  land  we’ve  never lived on. So

eat the thing whole. Eat it.

 

Dear Swan (a response to Mutedness)

In Uncategorized on December 10, 2010 at 10:19 pm

about that poem

I wrote last year, you

were in it. at least,

in it the way you’re

in memories, unwillingly

present and pushed around.

that’s where I keep you quiet.

 

it was selfish and short

sighted, the way art

always goes. nobody better

fucking touch

some things. some things

aren’t tactile.

 

that’s where I keep you

quiet, but you can

talk. we both know

that’s my problem. I feel

someone else in my

throat making all those dumb

jokes and asking if

my tits are too

small. the mute swan is

the most common type

of swan. I assumed

you knew.

 

about that poem

you were a metaphor

for beauty or truth or

something, depending on

how you read it. what terrible

trite things, I know

you know it too—

that’s why we hang out swan:

we hate all the same things.

 

you were a

metaphor but I

know how much you

hate yourself how

angry you are at your

father for asking you to start

eating again maybe

join the track

team I know

about those

cigarette cherries

you push into your

peachy stomach skin

pushed in the way you’re in memory

the way no one knows you at all,

 

the way you are larger than

but closely related to

the way you’re in memory.

about that poem

I wrote last year

you were naked

and quiet, the way

art always

goes. but out

side of it you

are all swollen

up with hate

and I am just

asking you to

get out of  my

poem and come

back to bed. Come,

come.

 

Darknesses and Visions

In Uncategorized on November 23, 2010 at 4:20 pm

in a rush for the guest’s arrival we’re all singing—

it’s an end to the life-long human being.

I believe we mean the dinner party

but nobody ever understands hymns and choruses

 

so I keep setting the black market silverware

unaware that I cut off a finger every

time I lay down a knife, just wailing—

the adult is a myth, my friends

 

and lovers, a myth.

the guest says—there’s blood all over the

goddanm table, how am I supposed

to eat like this? I hum low—

 

with darknesses,

with visions.

[x]

In Uncategorized on November 9, 2010 at 2:09 am

I.
x’s favorite part
of decorating
xmas tress
was ripping
the roots out
of the ground.

she would spit
words like,
“stop holding
on, the dirt
doesn’t want
you anymore.”

II.
x’s left hand
is in love with x’s
right hand
but they must
wait for x
to fall asleep to
get a little
god
damn
privacy.

III.
when the tornado
sirens would
sound in x’s
town, she
would drop
her head and pray
that this one
would finally

rip
up
every
thing
she
knew.

IV.
on wednesday
afternoons
one could find
x spread
out over the
natural science
literature
in the
library stacks,
whispering loudly
to herself,

“I’ve got to
break up with
life before life
breaks up
with me.”

can’t help it

In Uncategorized on November 4, 2010 at 11:06 am

I have many bodies. One of them is a cage.

rattle on the bars  can’t help it   can’ t help it

 

I dream this dream every night, you all fly off

like a cloud of dark vanishing birds   can’t help it

 

When I died I received seventy honey-covered porcupines

licked everyone clean  can’t help it  can’t help it

 

There’s a family in my hands. Dad’s very pissed off

& mom’s got no one to help it can’t help it

 

Outside of me there is a table and chairs.

I will meet you there  can’t help it  can’t help it

 

8 Ways to Know Dust, after Wallace Stevens

In Uncategorized on November 4, 2010 at 11:00 am

I

In the unseen wrinkles

of a young woman’s hand

lives dust.

 

II

I gather stones from fields,

like pearls of dust on my finger’s ends,

and wrap them up in boxes, away

from my vision, from things that break.

 

III

Why does the weather knock and snarl

outside my window, and inside

only dust?

 

IV

Where there is a young dancing

wildness, there is a golden dust passing

overhead & underfoot.

 

V

Really, only dust is moved

by the radio wave.

 

VI

That thing we are all always crawling

towards is a dust cloud, always

revolting back towards us to verify.

 

VII

I’ ve seen all your faces

pouring out from your door ways

with children,

and I will see all those faces

covered in dust.

 

VIII

Gravity works the dust

to intrepid, planetary death.

 

Mutedness Pt. 2

In Uncategorized on November 4, 2010 at 10:46 am

Walrus, walking on his knit-needle teeth

Knows naked navels like I know my mother’s knees. They are all

Quiet things making stillnesses, catching your eye on stubbled stillnesses like

A field night wind that makes its own quiet things that make their own stillnesses

Their own subtle stillnesses, that is where I am.

I am in the walrus, walking on his knit-needle teeth, watching

My mother’s naked navels dancing in the margins

Knitting knees for me, for

Me inside the walrus

The walrus, knitting stillnesses that make quiet things,

Things that know navels like they know me inside

My mother’s knit-needle knees

That quake to make quiet things keep quiet

Keep quilting, keep spinning for

Stillnesses.

 

Hey! We’re all concerned here.

In Uncategorized on November 4, 2010 at 6:54 am

Every night I eat my trust heart, chew its red blubber skin salted then I

double over in my bed & throw myself onto my life-size effigy, I fuck

what’s left of my love heart, small chunky seminal pieces covered in hair

& cocaine. Once I’m exhausted I go to my bathroom & scrape up my

god heart off the floor with a credit card & try to lick it up but it’s all

interplanetary dust & tastes like Carl Sagen’s mouth parts. If I leave my

windows open pigeons will nest in my chest, bring lice & street

maggots to sleep in, but when I try to rest they pick at my body heart,

stick their globalized-high fructose-post post modern beaks in and pull

out worms like anxiety & drop them back into my mouth. They want me

to call them mom, call them more often, call to say how I’m doing, but

instead I roll over on them and trap them in my cavity until there is a

terrible violent flapping knocking noise & feathers & feathers pumping

out from me onto my bed and into the room and back out the window.

But I hold my cave until there is stillness.

rough cracking fuzzy sleep

In Uncategorized on November 4, 2010 at 4:11 am

I once had a rough
naked dance
during which I broke
my glasses smashing
them back onto
my face in a
spinning collage of
elbow jabs that were
decidedly white.

The legs split
apart cracking
the hinge out
in the wrong direction
making my face hang
permanently crooked.

For the night I
had fuzzy reception,
all went soft
and crashing. I
lost something I
didn’t imagine
could leave.

It’s sleeping on
the floor now
even when I say
it’s ok
come back to bed.