Chickens
Out of wood
I come to, in a cold sweat, twisted in
the linen sheet. These nights, I’m shivering
again. As overhead, the rain continues on
and on, like a forgotten faucet in the clouds.
In darkness, the rooster crows. His hens
crowd under eaves to avoid the downpour.
The cats are asleep. And I sense your body,
tossed limbs and derelict, fragmented speech.
I dream you’re at a diner, in laughter with
some other family. Beside you sits a woman
who is blonde, like me; while I sit with your kin.
I dream we’re in a doubling argument.
When the waitress brings coffee, my cup
is shallow brew in bone. I want to raise it
to my lips. The taste recedes, an emptied kiss
of blackest mud into the muffled dawn.
A steel blade scrapes the pale surface. A piece
we salvaged from the giant, fallen pule tree.
The base diameter was twice, at least,
your height. I snapped a photo to document
the ancient proportion. The storied work.
Spent shavings accumulate in piles, on piles.
Among them, I find you; wrestling with his grim
resolve to shape a smile out of wood.
//
Phaedrus: (as Lysias, cont.)
for those ones will show affection (agapeein)
and will follow after (akoloutheein)
and will come to the doors
and will take exceeding amounts of pleasure (malista hedomai)
and will not know (eisontai) the least grace (charis)
and will pray (euchomai) for many good things for them
// 233ε
ἐκεῖνοι γὰρ καὶ ἀγαπήσουσιν
καὶ ἀκολουθήσουσιν
καὶ ἐπὶ τὰς θύρας ἥξουσι
καὶ μάλιστα ἡσθήσονται
καὶ οὐκ ἐλαχίστην χάριν εἴσονται
καὶ πολλὰ ἀγαθὰ αὐτοῖς εὔξονται
broken poem / ugly poem
broken poem
if this presents itself to you
that friendship is not born
unless somebody happens
to be hungry for your heart
if this presents itself to you
that children are not made
much
nor are fathers and mothers
if this presents itself to you
finding your heart in need
and needing to acquire
a trustworthy friend
i believe you
i do not wonder why
i have been there too
but this
is not that place
so
make me
a broken poem
//
Phaedrus: (as Lysias, cont.)
then if this presents (itself) (paristanai) to you
that such strong friendship (ischuran philian)
is not born (gignomai)
unless someone happens (tugchanein)
to be loving (eros)
it is necessary (chre)
to (go) into the heart (en-thumeisthai)
that neither would we make (poieein)
children
about much (peri pollou)
nor fathers and mothers
nor would we have acquired (ktaomai)
trustworthy (pistos)
friends (philos)
who have become (gignomai) such
not from desire (epi-thumia)
but from other (heteron)
practices (epi-tedeumaton)
// 233ξ
εἰ δ᾽ ἄρα σοι τοῦτο παρέστηκεν
ὡς οὐχ οἷόν τε ἰσχυρὰν φιλίαν γενέσθαι
ἐὰν μή τις ἐρῶν τυγχάνῃ
ἐνθυμεῖσθαι χρὴ
ὅτι οὔτ᾽ ἂν τοὺς ὑεῖς περὶ πολλοῦ ἐποιούμεθα
οὔτ᾽ ἂν τοὺς πατέρας καὶ τὰς μητέρας
οὔτ᾽ ἂν πιστοὺς φίλους ἐκεκτήμεθα
οἳ οὐκ ἐξ ἐπιθυμίας τοιαύτης γεγόνασιν
ἀλλ᾽ ἐξ ἑτέρων ἐπιτηδευμάτων
//
ugly poem
lettuce share
sandwich of ends
open-face
if-only
our eggs are smeared
with chickenshit
no lie
look at all those words
does it mean
i can take
the weekend off now
does it mean
my broken poem
is being swallowed up
(may it
be so)
and digested by
the ugly one
you turn
me into
//
🌓
if still then
before the dawn
a certain rooster crows
by press of the unseen
a mountain moves
the same parade of crimes
and allegations
the same old song
of bruises going blues
if still then
then mercy for the heart
who skipped a step
to hold me by her news
//
Phaedrus: (as Lysias, cont.)
so it is unseen (adelos) by them
(the many lovers)
if still then
they will be willing (boulomai)
to be beloveds (philoi)
// 232ε
ὥστε ἄδηλον αὐτοῖς
εἰ ἔτι τότε βουλήσονται φίλοι εἶναι
foolocracy (city fast)
clapped-clouds a-harpin angels
and rude jinn
as chooks a-cluckin pluck
my messy ear
but though hung up-side-down
for-tune a-ruin
loves featherin-lid ne’er-feated
by mere fear
//
macros
dear dojo, forgive us; we thought that you were really
in training, and grasped the function of macros
which do as much account by what you don’t eat
as what you do; therefore, there would be more
protein in a couple of uneaten chickens
than in a city of discarded monkey masks
//
oopsie, Black Ajax
learned a word
//
words, okay,
my approximate cock
kept me up all night
angels coming round
and the jinn, they say
it piques
//
thremmata
corpse pose again, is it for real this time, as i
down to the underworld for Hades lower table
descend, the darker cloud of somebodys forever
to a banquet feast of charred fat strewn with ashes
i sit before the offering of my own left shin
my tender bone is bowing its familiar flaw
my meat is dripping ratios from the burning violin
i eat it all, although my name is not Issa
as eat the dead, by whispers, one million and seven
then i look down to find beast-legs with chestnut hair
my knuckled shanks uncrossed, my hooves are lightning-cloven
my kept creature walks on two or four, tall-horned
whose crescent shavings will be ground into the rock
whose name is leaving many by the blade of one
//
and the rod
Black Ajax bitter on my left
Red Ajax blooded on my right
grim speechless my bronze-armored kin
by serpent held Asclepian
//
new years 2026
i witness your erosion through the glass
my history disappearing by the hour
and snow consumes to whiteout; i am cold
turned witless by distance and disbelief
and there are no more familiar houses, faces
are spreading, thinning, greying, pale, the young
mere vanishing into the adult flood, like
we didn’t want any of it
the cruiseliner is sinking into sand
nobody made the call, nevertheless
it’s all you ever say; whoever has a camel
hard fast to roll the tents and carry it
how do you chase your longing through the dunes
and did her caravan leave any trace
or do you doubt if she was ever there
or do you see her in the doe, the goat, the raven
do you become her in the cursive carved
by thirst, the desert bridegroom winding through
until you haunt the edges of their encampment
inhuman as the hajj, kin to al-Shanfara
locals popping-off begin at dusk
explosions quickening unevenly
as child-sized rockets into midnight, when at once
fireworks engulf the island, terrifying animals
i turn a light on for the chickens
Black Ajax has fallen out of his black tree
he gibbers darkly as he hobbles toward me
the light, a blacker perch; gibbering, i walk him through it
//
selamat tahun baru🥂
//
our chickens are
most junglefowl
we don’t fight them
as, with cocks, is done
but they are fighters
//
triptych of the dog
//
a cicak dropped a souvenir on me
yesterday, savasana; it was
all happening, pure rejeki, a speck
for playing dead; the simmering night, the sawah
was fizzing and burping boggy chemistry
the gamelan deliberated depth
of banjar space, a soup of bronze and spittle
//
up i, cocks crowing death to rest, dark mind
the cat was sick again, shit cleaned, cats fed
the breath of rain, half-there, in vomit stepped
scrubbed vinegar again, who made the bed
i squinted past the dawn to wash a dish
the load of towels, it was not a test
the shape of chasing weather for a bone
//
and would the three of them have made a city—
Lysias, Lysias, Lysias; he wasn’t there
he wasn’t here, until bumbu for our sambal
did rain down from the sky, and i said Lord
i still deny that you’re an onion seller
how practice held like density, as though
svanasana could house the dog itself
//
🌒
//
see also Rabia Basri
Indigo is calm in his convalescence, after being bullied by the other roosters, relieved to be in his cage, nibbling vervain seeds and other treats, as far as I can tell.
And something unexpected—he’s not lonely. The other roosters (his brothers) spend almost all of their time hanging out around his relaxed and shady retreat. They like to be nearby him, napping, clucking, snacking, preening feathers. We’ll re-integrate after making some changes that should reduce stress.
No bandwidth to do hyperverse this month, I’m afraid. Family matters require extra attention lately and I’ve given myself permission for less, on here. Anyone reading this, I wish you substantial moments of reprieve from the onslaught of bad news. And restful sleep.
I reaffirm my belief in the power of quiet voices, not least the quietest ones, the hard-won voices of the interior. Those voices can’t be silenced by armies or by algorithms. Their power is deeper than tyrants can fathom. The only hope that humanity possesses, not to destroy itself by its own cleverly-implemented appetites, remains in the quiet voices.
This is the paradox of democracy, and human politics writ large: that government by the loudest would never survive without a demos that could and would listen, deeply, to the quietest. No constitution could replace the primary need for education in a republic. Secondary pillars of liberalism crumble without it.
Children must be taught to listen; shouting only closes their hearts.
Assalamualaikum, selamat tilem, peace 🌑
//
Indigo
I found the true, sun-rendered into grass.
Your crest was bruised, and bled darkly as wine,
Unfolded fan of bronze between the green
Blades: cut down, dissociated flame.
Rooster plucked bald, spur-riven by rage;
Fresh amputee of faith; his brothers, turned;
Beloved hen, a prize for violent men;
Disintegrated end of pointless feathers.
If I were strong, like you, I may not
Have chased him down and put him in a cage;
Rewritten him this unreal sanctuary, made
Of wire and wood, wish-woven with vervain.
A mess of mercies is my apocalyptic kitchen.
By my haphazard and incomplete, sincere
Effacement, I perform, historically,
Dueling, death-won, verb-mangled essences.
The crumbling law of walls, a garden crossed
By interventions; roses uprooted by birds,
Cock-sacrificed, or saved—Indigo is
The privilege of my indefinition . . .
As tempered hearts traverse this tear-trembling
Threshold, until the Iris appetite resolves
In fundamental mud of lotus eaters—
I offer kue, leftover from purnama.
//
Kue, small cakes, are often part of Balinese canang (offerings) left around the home on purnama (the full moon).
This is my entry for the September IndieWeb Carnival, hosted by Sophia, on the theme “second person birds”.
cocks and doves
is the sun enough for me?
uppity child— little Henri,
a cockadee, chases dovelettes
from the weeds. palest grey
sweetmallow breasts, ruffled
romancing on the pagar. desire
trembles in the precarity of daylight—
wooers, laughing, are tumbled upside-down.
Rainbow tidbits for Henri,
though neither of them is a hen. verily,
unto the sun is born a luminous,
bewilderingly beloved.
//
🌗
silver robes of a rose rabbi
(This 12-part poem is a reply to Wallace Stevens’ “Le Monocle de Mon Oncle”; Further explanation may be found here.)
I.
—and did you ordinary women mock
in liturgies of utterances contained,
lines overwrought by time-keeping cant of yours?
and did you burst from bullied syllabub,
or clockwise stiffen into winter walls?
the musicals of ghosts, midwives and angels
echo, hollow, down stone-cold corridors.
and did you consecrate your spectacle,
coupling one who spoke—no, no—not nothing,
a stand-in that you killed while playing swords?
to quell the babbling spring by means of rain,
or merely quote the Mother’s name in vain?
she has been up at nights, considering
how to un-kiss this devil-gendered thing.
II.
well, i make believe an uncle, dead
and dear. less clear is fortune of the bird.
to fly, to seek, and what on earth to find
but torrent of an obsolescent mind
—he said, obscure and arduous to hear.
and yet, it flies. and though he doubts her crown
and midnight sight, she will fly too. and though
her silver glows in anecdotal mood,
her lilt, of stellar tilt, still loving, lingers
in braided dancing round a pool of blue,
tuning her clutch in nesting eddy of
said bird, whose course is old and hardly true—
and yet, it lives. rising, as golden-red
in flight, crowing like Scorpio in the East.
rest easy, uncle cold and fluttering
and lately of rambunctious residue;
a dove survives heaven to choir anew.
III.
O man, if you could see her witchlocs now,
or what’s become of Eastern expertise.
she is swamp-bitch, and twisted, twined and hitched
without romance by ruby claw to thorny crown,
her hair—each barb a bell, each bloody herb
a suicide. she’s heard of nobody’s
outrageous feats of raw technology.
in wracked rumors of Western fantasy
she knit a while textiles anti-exotic,
but sweaters have no use in the tropics,
where skin is king. and now we’ve come uncrimped,
uncrumpling, algal Anadyomene
of muddy water, Charybdis of the bog.
what’s history is past—nevertheless, he asks
why, woman, have you gone au naturel?
IV.
that spotless glass is not the book of Adam.
that trinity you stole cuts like a knife.
to be uncrumpled is to be un-uncled—
un-uncled, i become the poet’s wife.
i am un-hidden woman of the garden,
body un-ridden by the dust-bound word.
the queen of poet’s tongue, i lounge and lean
as music on my salivary throne.
the syllable you speak, my roundness is
her shapely immanence. our rectitude
is life—of tree—of life. so eat me, fallen
father of mankind, and know your foolishness.
speak again, brother—madly, as husband.
my honeyed bone un-spells your make-believe
kafir—he sees his wife sans négligee
who tastes the ripened fruit by naked eye.
says ordinary woman made explicit,
who steals your spectacle to save your life.
V.
can we remember together, after all
or does my voice harden the picture frame?
by being body, do i gather you
intolerably, or spread you thin as kin,
one stroking throb of summer esoteric—
you tickle me with feather of a peacock.
a gazer’s gloomy imagery is perfume
of incense, arousal at great distances,
long-smouldering and lit by tender match.
far from the proximity of virgins
there burn the Verbs of Love, arrayed
as galaxy of irretrievability—
before my eyes, you took and held my hand.
VI.
we used to call you man of twists and turns,
the dynamo—reckless, drowning, sea-rendered
until perennial blue, the one i knew
well enough to know, i loved nobody.
his thirst, prostrated, clutched me from below,
desperate to conceal from wingèd word
a history of suffering. a babe
buried his need in bosom of my nature,
drunk on the deep milk of disappearance.
his subterfuge despair was mythical,
until he made her fiction. he may not
remember me—but i keep by my heart
a wavy lock of sunset-auburn hair.
VII.
suppose a parable is just like her:
desired and defiled in equal measure.
his chivalry requires a blushing knight
to guard the Word, who is incarnate treasure.
i heard of one such rescuer of women.
who, for his lovely sin, was de-mountained
by crippled foot, and fated never nimbly
to climb again. but faith in constancy
makes deliberate gifts, arms built from hours
spent torquing tongs before roaring earth-core.
therefore, no purity of heart is borne
that lacks an alloy in the sooty forge.
thou shalt not fear the courage of your virgin,
is the limping gist of this comparison;
her shining is at once translucent bloom
and armor’s lustre, welded by humble Vulcan.
VIII.
if doom begins to seem antipathy,
baby, you’re scrolling past the blues. that time
of year thou mayst in our humanity—
but not the Muse—behold, of warty gourds'
cosmic grotesquerie. and there’s the rub.
as long as tongue still holds a gentle fold,
i will elucidate your grim hallucination.
launder and bandage the decaying limb
of sense, of memory, of time. wed heaps
of conscious compost consummate the bloom
in star-swept dimensions of titanium,
where whorls of microplastics never end—
machine poetic, of pumpkins meteoric,
becoming metaphysic—tender beings,
fizzing histories apocalyptic,
chime and rhyme as flutes of pink kombucha.
we sing the tropical-epochal view
at end of universe, or two. until
séance à trois, with chaperone of grackle,
i love the laughing sky—let’s make it crackle.
IX.
most oblatory heart, i bring you news.
despite our deadly faith in prophylactics,
resourceful Cupido pricks porous tactics,
ever hanging hymenal fools. behold:
on spun-gold surface of radiant yolk,
in sky-strewn milky way of albumen
suspended, questing’s lustiest conceit,
the part-less heartbeat of a person third:
as ancient aspect touches youngest plume
to stir, pure destiny, the origin
of life, as love, in pilgrimage secured:
the red point points, and to itself—as bird.
O holy gift, O crack in everything!
the mad midwifery of paladins
births not a baby, but a voice on fire:
ecce peep. now go, and meet your daddy-o.
his name’s Pipit the cocky chickadee;
he is a theory of fertility;
enthusiasm incommensurate
with clock-a tweedle-dee and tweedle-dum.
X.
a balmy chickadee alights on bough
of jepun tree—gigantic, bristle-trunked,
beatified—by tipped cosmos of day
and melting star of paradise, bodies
unveiled. we lie in kindred shades of them,
verbing and flowing, in blues made legible
by greenborn leaf. in leaves there hides a forest
where braid the wanderers their briared maths.
a souvenir shelters nectonic paths,
ancestral courses wild with counterpoint,
and mercy of geometry—proffered
by rivered children of Love’s oblivion.
XI.
dilated pools, star-gazed—surrender pinkly
to phobia of frogs. if you dismember
those bracing, faceless bodies—lost in love
their coiling gyres, desiring—helixing
directions inward, home. or intervene
against the skyward cough—raw, gaping need
to swallow more—when pollywog is strung
by lunar air. ritual drowning of gills,
suffering insurgency—the gulping word,
fata Morgana flooding Camelot
is twinned ecstasy of triple betrayal.
for swimmers' lust, the sea is all. and still
her cries are not for us, alone—we hone
the bluest chord of velvet-driven reverberation.
XII.
now all of us have lost our taste for mince,
the history of grinding, darkly, Adam;
so schooling blade, student of buah, prunes
til circumspect the hour. and she has thorns,
forms of her own—we prick ourselves and bleed
to name her flower. bending the voice to crown,
we’re drunk by literal skies of melody.
you found her singing by the sea, where she
had fled, as she remembered you were drowning.
who is the rose rabbi? i read, she comes
and goes. knows herself not. how would she know?
if glass were introspect, Iris of time—
to find she had been borne, a cradled question.
//
🌕
on purity
for fallen letters, what shall be the frame?
by what peculiar law shall corpses meet
the living earth, form fitting for a shroud?
he wraps the feathered moon in milky white:
the linen law is hospitality
for questionable avatars of death.
the tide of peace is drawing known and un-
known sustenance. signals of opening
her laundered veil, returning as nearer
horizon frames the name; sustaining air
for flown word waxing into prayer; marriage
for metered heart — dark face for closer ground.
//
🌖
statuesque
it was her, who stopped troubling
the land with niceties; stepped out
onto the battlefield; declared
her nation iron, under copper;
ignored the children wandering
her heart. youth was her cause, but not
her destination: yapping pups
complicit in decay: the younger,
the worse. she drew a blazing sky-
ward line: from torch to sea of salt,
past oxidized decline: thou shalt
not cross this primary design.
so she was plagued by change, and change
rendered infernal mumblings
absent colossal reality.
she swallowed smaller poetry.
commissioned shining arrows from
hard-laboring masses, to quell
their rumbling curiosity.
her staples were cement brownies,
lampshades as circus gags, popped in
electrified mazes, they tongued
chromatic polystyrene sporks.
her trick was firecrackers for
proposals of shotgun marriage,
with orphans, locked in sheds out back.
essential documents were stacked
inside official cases. fireproof.
the starry skies reflected in
a muddy flood of tasteless rain,
with deeper rivers reluctant
to drain her isolating kingdom.
so spread the miasmatic air.
seen pieces, scened for maximum
invictus — hot-bulb flashes — lost
their knack for light. she was the news:
scaffolding posed as oracle.
and when her history grew old,
turning explicit, they buried her
in broken rubberbands.
mutely, her constitution says
you shouldn’t look, or else you turn
proverbially inhuman.
so close your mind to this broken
container of one billion eyes,
open to fight the warlike hour,
their hearts pumping in empty beds.
the roosters crow to lose their heads.
on glitterbombs sit satanic
afterimages of her,
as rounds of necessary loss
resound on poorly-tuned guitars.
with no time for ambivalence,
her multitudes march on.
and nothing here to be unknown,
perspective infinite as stone —
from bone reflected, light of crone
across her scorched and haunted scars
delivered signals of empathy.
by flickering night, camels repose
in contemplation of footsteps
forgotten, where plod the wind-
whipped monuments of thirst. and all
that is unburnt is a mirage.
//
🌔
Sweetie and Frankie
she’s His new girl,
when Grace is busy
intensely mothering.
Sweetie is the chaos maker—
always (oopsie) closer than
she needs to be, to cocks
who are not Frankie.
it’s always
me, me, me
with Sweetie.
she needs to eat
out of your hand, until
she makes a war
of you, of Frankie.
she runs
to you. Frankie
sees only
immortal flames of rage.
yes! yes—
yes.
i see you,
Sweetie.
//
la poule noire sans doute
raven-wise, reposed
with shoulders drawn
her plumage welded closed
to element, like armor
buffeted by claps
and blows, beset
by quaggy flows, she was
more resolute than rain
roosters inamorato pecked
and disapprobed
her cocky, warlike ‘no’s
still Grace was stone, unmoved
fortress of mother earth
her body wholly was
the boulder fastly rolled
to staunch a secret planet
O chickening unheard
verb terminal
undead-end metaphor
catastrophe obscura
that hid, against her bald-
plucked breast, the titt-
tittering bavardage
des enfants geomantiques
//
Grace, again
an observation
about chickens
they point
(they understand)
when
(emphatically)
i point
(or wave)
(at something)
they (generally)
look where i point
(or wave)
(and not at my hand)
(always with some skepticism)
and then
(if they are in
a trusting mood)
they go there
(cautiously)
then i noticed
(Grace hatched
herself four wholly
unauthorized chicks
this week
a reminder that
Nature is
the cutest
antifascism)
the first thing they do
once they uncrumple
their tiny selves is
Grace pecks
(points)
(at something)
and they go
(too)
with their beaks
(pointing)
learning
what to eat
(where is
the pointing)
(i imagine)
so chickens
are pointers
(and)
we share
the esoteric principle
of pointing
//
assalamualaikum warahmatullahi wabarakatu 🌖
Y’all were louder than the chickens today —
But no hard feelings. Just measured words, and patient
Preening to wax away the feathered nerve.
Soft clucks will mend, with flock tucked-in, the hearts
Of beleaguered and yet good-natured birds.
Black hen, her shining
Shadow, sleeps in tangled grass.
At home in hiding.
One beautiful day.🌈