cathy eisenhower

from April in the Pink Sewer
                      "My drug is myself."
Henri Michaux



        Where is my
        mediocre void
        sting me to

        I: a line.
        Event: pulses along.
        Rhythm: moderating fear.

        I wrote
        with a single stroke
        in the margin

        Hello: where
        do you go

        Hello: let us go
        to the danger

        Hello: steel mill
        rendered instant
        in air

        Hello: here comes
        my void

        flying from tree
        to previous tree


        my swarm-stung brother
        ran right into
        my brain at that time

        take your plastic
        machine gun

        break it playing
        at killing
        the neighborhood children

        stick it in the hole
        in the stone

        the father with his
        slow heartbeat
        building a scaffold

        house sold off
        for debt

        it was that lilac
        time of year
        when victims surface


Solid Figures Travel a Bee Line.

I thought (that)
I saw (see)
them killing
(that they are killing)
the man (many).

There is (not)
nothing to have (that)
but the ghost (chaos)
of branches
right through our livers (or)
(right through our endings)

The language (of bees)
is truly (begins with P)
the solving of (with)
the problem with (of)
the limits of

Forget (that) the m-u-r-d-e-r-s
or the being (too) close
to the sex of others
(that they are killing)
there is (only) one word
(that) you (in saying) say



            these organizing
            hunger & money

            push buttons to
            & the project
            manager moderates
            my joy with
            content with
            this work in my ragged
            of vision

            & so on & so
            along sexless
            I donate my reason
            to the beasts

            in the books
            around about me

            let them wash
            in the renderings
            of themselves


marble memo.

(I am not
committed enough
to watch a 3-
dimensional dance
of bees.)

how do you would
you break & how

a branch of

those branches passing through

the torso that belongs
that cancels out the dance

(In this case vision
is a tunnel
is a placemat
I put my eyes on it)


April Fools.

I knew me better
than you (do, or know me)
my warning turned

to a brain
&then said oh
&then took crumbling

pills (shut up.) into
my confidence
I always currently
cry when the world

opens (fuck.) the thinking
cannot find
my thinking belonging to (that’s bullshit.)
who is this space

cannot touch the smallest
hole in the orbit
of exhalations
there is no above

there is no below
faces out to here
(yeah.) kaleidoscope
is home. I mean,
used to be.

«±  ±»

cathy eisenhower's first book CLEARING WITHOUT REVERSAL is forthcoming from Edge Books in 2007. She lives and writes in DC.




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