Excerpt from On the Ground

ON THE GROUND

Satan fell behind, it was a taxi’s shadow
where Man put his foot on the sidewalk

His mouth covered mine and he was gone

Italo once said a kiss on the mouth is a sign of betrayal
and pointed at Judas in the painting

(his muscular hand, his brush)

There was an ache in the canvas he had speared himself

That was the day when rain fell until twelve
outside the studio and twelve months before that shadow






Not a rink but ashed-over ice
Rain on a windshield, a green light

Apartments made of dirt, neon
hangers outlined in the cleaner’s window

I think proximity is the abyss
between God and us because

every fabric of my body is trying
to know why saying

I love you
in a time of extremity is a necessity


Dreams before waking are eyes into the future
where there is no Zurich but an alphabet

beginning with Z
so go away before I ask to know

what you mean about wanting to go

Terrified of being the first?
of being dirt?

Of being ambushed or embossed? Personally
I want to batter my way out of this cage of psychology

and get to the longing I really know about






Morning dusk—his figure furry

Threads of gray hair

and outside, a world without a leader
Oil and land mines

lonely words scurrying to work

If the dark bricks hide criminal life
so does each body

dedicated to maintaining power
by suppressing its delights


Inside this egg the walls are lacquered blue

Creamy tones of windowsill
and slat. Dawn from hell on up

I hear a rooster deny, deny, deny
or is it Man

Lies smell in every detail
as the light increases in this shell

Maybe the end of the world happened long ago
A whirl as quick as Judas breaking his neck
and every sound is an echo






Poor love in the order of existence

subsists on passivity inside this skin
where pain has cut a pattern

and a red heart’s a little devil
speared by its own hand

and brain of this stranger—
is it mine or its own—and its skeleton?

Can I toss them aside
like an armful of sticks and set out as a feeling
to find Hana and Issa across the night


Happiness has become unbearable
so don’t stay with me

Ilona said this from the hall

Doors are here for both ways of walking

The split bed and bodies facing
where two unanimities
make a positive zero

She was hoping to die into Hans
so I left her house





I thought I was happy and said to my friend

It’s because we are together

The blushing hills were rusty
its nerves as icy as his sleeves

Doll’s hair, snow like artificial
Elimination of detail, a day to be grateful

He had broken parole

with speed-thinning strides
a horse passed by without a saddle


A body never forgets
The lens is turned on its own tremendum

Only blocks away—tubes, needles, straps
at the physician’s prison

No sign of reflection, just blood and bone
trying to incorporate meds into atoms

When the body escapes without identification
this is its identification:

Chunks of moonstone smoothing a curb
Honey night snow in the city






She swept up my hair from the linoleum floor
and shook out the sheet

A rouge along the shades and drinks to be drunk

In transit, in transit, in stations and camps

little white spots wobbled from wall to phone

Star-lashes batted

—it was truck lights exiting the pike
and other war zones


Farther wars report on us:

an arsenal of artworks and theories
that contribute to the power of the military

“Beware of the fruits of your labor!”






My father was a soldier
who was smaller than my son

when he returned as a ghost.

I begged him to stay with us
but he said: “Not until you come to life.”

Copyright 2004 by Fanny Howe.  All rights reserved.