Robin Wyatt Dunn

on Moreno Drive

there are no ants on his hair
they live inside
like I'm one of them
marching slow into the mouth

he stands outside the door
the building where the previous owner died
(statuettes littering the balcony; they killed him)
holding the lasagna

unpoisoned, except by his eyes

Silverlake below like his face
cut from metal
sheer, the painted white haze wrapped round your neck
a weapon polished for ninety years
like a snarled explosive
that hides underneath your skin
waiting to take your cells
and blink on your eyes

he tells me
"you shouldn't eat the Cheez-Its"

his dog winds up the tower
across the street
I follow him up
he sips the white wine
then throws it up
over the balcony
while the Sinaloa crew hammers away on the new addition
we pass his binocs back and forth
and he tells me where the aliens are hiding


with what light
and to what end
I who am merely—
Naked or foresworn
Rented out
The body and the kingdom
Come to me
Or to you
This vessel
Which way is it
Not out
But into the night

Come with me into the night
And I will show you something different
From the dead angel
And the griffon's head
I will show you meronymy in the mountain

Your brown boots
This theater event
Extreme and indifferent
Not rapt or meshed
Not insufferable
For it suffers
You suffer
On the rite you wear
like an escutcheon
over your face
tattoo of grief


the moody sheep is bound by faith
his faith in things
the laptop and the heritage of giants
the color of asphalt
the flavor of cats
and their expressions
their steps on countertops

each road in its dignity
to subscribe
like madmen before the burning

the limbs and its forearms
the tongue and wraith
the sound of music
like a general in his army
being run underground

eyeglasses in their frames
each personage
encapsulated for instance
by their voices
or mouths
sometimes feet
insisting by right
that they are here with him

sometimes he taps his foot
to reconcile the movement of the void
against the madness of derision of the self
each one entirely separate
moving independently
writhing in stasis
about the orbit of the soul

not logical
or obedient
cannot multiply or divide
indignant about the other sheep
indifferent about the weather
marked with a glaring glow
hovering over his right eye
he stands sometimes in circles
to make it look right

no house looks alike
nor any road or tree
the sky 
patches of grass
the emoluments of god
offered greedily
treated with derision
he is not lonely
nor looked after
for he is still capable

he is coming into the great nexus
some say slaughterhouse
what does he do then?
the faith in things by their own nature subsist on the truth
ornery and unshakeable
but things have alliances in other dimensions
changeable events
times and places
the nature of being
the ornaments of the cosmos
hues and loves

here now over the sweep of sky
he invites you to present your argument
before the herd
his brethren
they are not sorrowful
not in any rush
these changes
in the soul and other places
in their physicality
may be made known to those interested
when you are invited to speak

the sound is as important as the word
the coverage of your neck over your body
the precision with which you enunciate the sound
oak to back
skipping rock
over the stream

the things themselves
being sounds
move slow in the sludge of the river
walking definite
from tree to tree
life to life

not that it is laudatory
merely an example
once he spoke of his shirt
the color like water
small and stained
like a favorite rug
able to be seen at some distance
but not identified
he noted that his indifference to being recognized
a slight burl on his tongue for moving out of the way
stemmed perhaps from his desire to get a view
from the side
at what was happening

some will say that each sheep has his place but he does not agree
not that there is no place at all for them
or that place is a troublesome category
which it is
but that some have a place more than others
and that the place is determined
by your ability to be in it
and to taste its wonderments
in your jaws

pain writes hands
like skin writes men
up against the grain 
we know what is coming
the curtain rising
blasted rain
different colored suns
leashed to the hoof
made white in fleece


hold me against the night
my fever for you written in the rain
whose winter suns the dove
sacrifical or nuptial
like seasons make the jetty
into a port
and then carry it away
I want to go with the rain

Robin Wyatt Dunn was born in Wyoming in 1979. You can read more of his work at www.robindunn.com.
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Blogger Mess said...

Killer, killer journey. Miles of magic imagery and deep dives into the "hewman" condition. To be reread over and over for all the "new" it will reveal with each reading. Thank you, Monsieur Dunn.

6:08 AM  

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