you will not chant us down again. / You will not chant us down in our sorrows. / You will not chant us back into the earth. // For we left the earth where we thought we were alone / yet we are beside you, laughing and singing and unbroken.
carpet, v., n. : as in bombing, / laying down death, hot and bright, / covering with orange turning / to the black that erases, smudges / like punch spilled / onto carpet,
B O D Y: What’s the kind of painting that you hate?
MITCHELL WIEBE: Painting that insults your intelligence, that looks like its trying to be something it’s not.
B O D Y: Have you ever made any of those?
MITCHELL WIEBE: Yeah, all the time.
Once I found a piano wedged under a slab of rock. / The keys smelled like a woman I had married. / Often I dream of her — a tournament of innocence / played in lycra with stone tablets.
There’s no room here for waiting. It’s not loss / I sense, or fear’s remission. Not absence, / heat or order failing. It’s hunger, say, / or want — a revision of months, this whole / year.
My first painting, that one. I remember / the feeling that the light was creating / the shade, somehow, of coming into November, / of always turning, never waiting. // But I've always been waiting.
I cut my hair with a knife so I could be a knight. / I went to the river so I would smell like a man / who can handle the whole world. I was / a knight with armor on the inside, a lion’s / hunger mixed with a bull elephant’s thirst.
I love everything: / the man in the bar who says he builds boats, / plastic bags that catch in the branches, / rattling. Sometimes the city / shuts me out, or else I’m split, / or the things that I am are / stacked, I sing them out.
At the Casa Grande disco, men hold on / to other men’s behinds, and women / hold on to men’s behinds, / and everyone is holding on / to what it means to be dancing / and holding on