Kismet Al-Hussaini

 


 

Bodies at Rest

 

Some days you wake up x-rayed in a hall,

one of you in motion, the rest carved into bed.

 

There's a High Voltage sign, cables sparking from above.

Some days you wake up farming. You put seven good eyes in a pot

 

then turn away as they grow. Like now you want this aster,

like now you walk out bleached as an oar.

 

There's a giant demolition in the mirror: a stranger's couch on fire.

You float ten feet above and pick out his dull, flat head.

 

What I'm saying isn't true, what I'm saying is

I've been gazing at a painted bird for days, for days playing tag with a day.

 

You open your eyes and try to catch up. Sometimes you do,

sometimes you wake up with twigs in your hair.

 

Call that moment bland, call it a story: like this one

you toss a dried orange out the window and it floats.

 

This morning the branches put the sun in a headlock.

You wake up flexing like a match just struck,

 

your body tied to a string, a body the sun twirls.

There's a Caution sign on the ceiling, a feminine grove underneath.

 

What I'm saying is, my back is a giant bed, a real noun.

 

 

 

 

Friction Discourse on Lake 9

 

An abrasive is a surface. Only apply abrasives to another surface, superface. Only an idea that surrenders to the weight of an abrasive will survive an offensive unscarred. Creation: jetting out of the snow like pencils, the cardinal's wife dashes stage left. The director is a madman. He drops snow on stage to disinfect the plot. Only a soul that bends to the weight of a compliment will survive. Apply one singed cheek to another and count the flying particles. If scattered, the world is tracked, its finite embryos burnt at the stake. Three souls lain neatly on a tile. Pure umbilical gossip. Finding the straight way into air is a solution a breath and a meta can apply. Tickle the faucet for money. Administer the nozzle, exfoliate a heel. Stack the bristles in a cupboard where every cup is some amount deep. When traced, a line cannot be described as a volume, but fickle. Depth loses track of the flitting screen. Depth stalls. In point nailed to point, we haul proud documents over our holes. Wear love like a texture. There is a pile of luckies rasping beneath a window, a mask eager to be donned. The wild air is a better breathe, a place of disaffection; the world arches back and clasps its toes here. Not much steel on the surface, only an opaque, gliding sheen. A bird and plant are conservative. Every planet, color. Because the soul is too liberal, it yearns to adhere, to be memory. To adhere is to attract a strand or whisper. A whisper folds in and out of consciousness, stealing a trace of the surface it last touched. Look out that window where the blue wind is snowing. Every eye once seen, I fold into the current where several of me swim. No soul, no surface is flexible until scrubbed and gravitized. Soon there will be an astringent that does not leave a smell of something murdered. It is available if you are. Every whisper till then is suffocating on a stranger's towel.

 

 

 

 

Birds of Ljubljana

 

Her roller skates surpass her plums surpass her lips surpass her legs surpass her heels surpass her cheeks surpass her eyes surpass her locks surpass her words surpass her moves surpass her magnets surpass her coats surpass her rings surpass her dreams surpass her men surpass her prints surpass her cars surpass her bikes surpass her hats surpass her plates surpass her cups surpass her robes surpass her bras surpass her dogs surpass her boobs surpass her hands surpass her dolls surpass her estates surpass her fathers surpass her mothers surpass her umbrellas surpass her lyrics surpass her novels surpass her wits surpass her skis surpass her routines surpass her spas surpass her myths surpass her demons surpass her buffed toes.