I Who Am Whispering

sentence fragments at
three meters a
second

white cloud-shaped
comic bubbles
above my head

words you could read
out loud

© 2010 andrew kooman

I Who Am Turning

thoughts
on a dime

into a man
who, if he says he
grows radishes
will grows radishes

the small dial on your
second-hand
watch
hardly pinched
awkwardly as it sounds
between my helpless thumb
and middle finger

one year older
to every seven
of your
in-need-of-bath
dog

will shave
the bearded stubble
from my face
with the blade of your skate
on which you turn
figures
eights looped like bows
even a Russian judge
would warrant a
10

I who am turning

joined at the elbows
like a square-dancer
in knee-high socks

numbers on my
brown
rotary phone
whose cord kinks
and bunches near
the wall

whistled notes
double-jointed
into the wind
throwing the sound
behind me
trill and glorious

dexterous
digits showing no
signs of
opposition

will walk
round the corner
with you

crawl
if I must

© 2010 andrew kooman

I who am telling

hand against earth
knuckle to rock
pebbles, abrasions
on the surface of skin

dust and grit
caked
behind ear
under finger nails

teeth hiding beneath
lips
thinned and cracked
by time by
wind

the things we mean to
say
like so many bones
stripped and skinned
of flesh
buried, vertical
through a thousand
different years

strata

vertebrae jut and
twist

press through
and against
sand through limestone

run our sun burnt
fingers
along notched ribs

we brush away more earth
expose the clear
polished line
of a femur
shining white, glazed
in the sun

read each
face
like braille

jaws
gaped and open
edged by screams of
horror

brushing away
debris, collected fragments
one quarter inch
at a time

elbows, knees
pressed into the tel
of the world

© 2010 andrew kooman

I Who Am Longing

for God knows
what

and three other things

wonder just
how

to remove the rebar

four feet in
length

thrust from back to chest

narrowly missing lungs
heart

when careless I plunged

from the rickety scaffold
of dreams

blue skies peel

angels alight from gargantuan
cranes

descend wielding hack saws

salty smell of blood
wet concrete

hazards on site

danger of desire in the
unfinished life

© 2010 andrew kooman

I Who Am Fighting

i.
the urge to
pull away the hand
I hold in front of my face
block the sun
open my squinting eyes
to be blinded by glory

ii.
the beast in the sea
whose furious tentacles
cull and churn the abyss
hold my breath
drowning

iii.
to read between the lines
of your crinkled forehead
pouted lips
of the letter you wrote so quickly
with little regard
and such sweet bitterness

iv.
to wake from my sleep
leave the dream where I am walking
backwards
into the future
reaching out my hand
willing you to run toward me

v.
I who am fighting
the sun and the sea
your quilt-like pattern
of slipping away
beyond reach
will carve and whittle myself
to a top
shaped like an acorn
to spin and turn with the seasons
until it stops
float to where you live
among the clouds

© 2010 andrew kooman

I Who Am Entering

the heavens with a spear
to rend and slice the sky
as a hunter guts a
wapiti

will unveil mysteries
in the path you walk
as a warrior lines out
entrails
to dry in the sun
arms stained in blood
from knuckle to elbow

I who am entering
the atmosphere
with no instrument but
a hollow throat
will shout a thunderous cry
as the sky streaks fire at my
velocity

will pull back the string of the bow
aim the arrows held in my five-fingered
hand
send a volley of such violence
into the hardened meat of your heart
deliver a wound deeper
than any fatal blow I would
inflict upon an enemy

I who am entering
the world again
light and spry as a pathfinder
panting like a wolf
hungry for flesh
after a long, terrible winter

will find a way
through the ice melt and
forests
over land and snow
to cure you of your foreign diseases
scare off the ghosts that
hide between wafts of smoke
bring you home

© 2010 andrew kooman

I Who Am Ending

like a moth-eaten soul
touch me right here
just below the rib
the whole structure will crumble
flake your finger with ash

I who am ending
like a temple sieged
in the same way Vespasian marched
to the holy place
lit it on fire to melt the gold
turned over each stone
while the wood, expensive fabric, wax
was licked up by flame
spit out sparks, smoke

I who am ending
like a rope weathered and frayed
knotted at the end
to be bundled or tossed

hollowed and swept
untethered, scratched
stretched and leaning my body
across the line
into something new

© 2009 andrew kooman

I Who Am Dreaming

the same person
who awakes
in the middle of the night
arms held in front of his face
gasping for breath

they’re just dreams
you say

then why do i hold this small golden egg
shell as thin as stomach lining
in the palm of my hand

see it here
underneath the pillow
how as with a silent dentist drill
the elf or faery who visited
carved a map of the dream world
all over the shell – here, the underwater
reef where I held my breath in the submersed car;
on this curve the broken wing of the emu
that ran, head bobbing, through the field of poppies -
like a Ukrainian egg painter
brushing out the subconscious world
and its shadows
in a matrix of colour

this is why i wake you
with laughter why
i kick and turn
leave the room while i sleep
step outside
puff clouds of icy breath
and wake half naked in snowdrifts
as the night turns over its silver
belly
breaches the land of dreams
and dissolves into day

© 2009 andrew kooman