Dieu Est un Lieu où Certains Saint-Spectacle Gisait

or, «God Is a Place Where Some Holy Spectacle Lies»

I.

Poverty has nothing with which to feed its love. And we have

walked through breathing.

Say, let’s remove ourselves from words

like light. Simple for a little society of the dead, and rags’

creasings. For a gamine in her exilic clothe, wedged

into a labor, dérangement resembles a glutton.

Some like history. With porridge

and bleating and bend-over. Skin does not

suppose a gatherer. In the country that god was, had

lived, a lingua franca’s grown in the arks of covenants.

So they smoke in the park and pee in the greenery. Everything barks.

  I have forgotten music as a field of eucalyptus moving slowly

     off the continent. Disoccidented, utopia has ghost and full boon,

will salivate. Mais les revenants, opaque, undream, unfit, sale os;

      armed with wasp metal. Its country men watch côton egrets eat

their cottonmouths. Set to burning leeches off with matchbook.

To shrink on fires, and throw voices into dialecting waters.

Banishéd from

Acadie, we mur

mur, what a bone

yard this is.

The Kreyol women’s hands suffer oyster shells, shucking til their thumbs are bat

lilies. Watch them bury their men’s underwear in the okra beds. Its how they keep

‘em home at night. They’d say sample chôse, tend yr sixwings and yr blood-love.

It’s the sun’s satisfaction from which you may escape. Now study this:

as drop by drop the gold of life ebbs out.

In fallen fruit

Paradis ungathers

creaming aluminum

honeydew soot.

II.

What has love to feed its pauvre, in rougeâtre days, we

draft one fox heart to ferry the cauchemar of this people,

drown its monied mouth and offer methane a wreck.

Ungalvanized, it throats of rust, winters a cane knife,

teeth of the shepardess, slick with dialects: its all mud

under the dock au Cocodrie, where Roland LaFont

and the dead, all-souled, sleep dark as dark is. The viol

ence of place (what is a place?) is distributed in money,

      en certains saint-spectacle, mitigates only in compromise called need-love.

There was a flood.

A world of water.

The mason’s wife

swam for her dau

ghter, when papa

m’dit travailler c’

est trop dûr. Tho

se years are dress

ed like fools, with

hands in buttermi

lk, bumbling, but

trepass in salt and

trepid light on to

in meek the earth

inherit. And wear

black pollen like a

Voodon instrument.

They smell of halo.

How we reek

       somesweet belief.

The task: to invent an under-lip for a story’s mouth that is too close as close as clothes.

A brazen box that limps its qualia, its singing wolf. But nothing strays in this, the age of lithe.

{{{{Yes, a creature raised her heart among its gaudy longing.

Faunal, yes, where some bareness exposes wetted by the weather.}}}}}}

To gig,

to gig rabbits,

to open them,

to read in them of storms to come,

to move bags of sand out of the shed over days

in the tense, unconfessing light.

The almost dead are rendered vers l’ouest,

as spun figmeat, loomed. Les maringouin,

their organ’s music is sang swoll.

Our sisters embalm

their languages, but

         suffer exquisite

         headhunting.

After the storm, I strayed, my nothing did, but those cauchemars of drowning

blue lipped in the flooded street, on Dauphine, or Saint-Philip,

in the sub tropic wetting of night, were splayed. I was

a tatter in a boat. That was

Ursuline, where the nuns lived. The money,

I did, my legs, betwixt, were bathed in it. Not now, I’m building

that prayer to live in, where tempered by gossip’s allegory, 

     we shackle of affect, (pilgrim’s)

and sigh that looting no longer s’appelle beau,

quand demander la charité is one thing undone.

As what lives in its name lives by holding, we ogle

     the hooks, chez l’apathie, in lingua franca, the slippage of descent in slips.

                                          III.

If one hesitates to covet translucent offerings, this means

civility. To not pick a fight with large things around. God

is a place, and not that permission by which you may visit

a pallor where money’s sensuality evidences, so when we break,

we’ll wait for our miracle

and move an under-lip to show it a human

mouth for pathos. Située, you must sell something, become

boutique, open animals for money, while the people watch

you watch your mouth:

there, I accord to a peasant’s fit, its love’s shape.

And certain holy

         spectacles

remind me

         cheaply

        of holding

        this perforated

             blood.

{ nous (we) souvenons (remember) que

nous avons  (that we have) des lieux (places)

pour rétourner (to keep going) avec

nos (with our) corps dans la (bodies in the) nuit (night). }

Triggered by licks, my ‘nature’ spilled onto the feet of a laborer: in reciprocity, or recompense, that’s what we meant by HARDER. They say women go about inventing tiny continents on

which to want. On m’demande de quoi moi je vis, What do we wager for a body of work-song?

You are its crops, and pulled from briar can be tender and self-evident.