Crawling Home to Mother



South of the mouth the clatersal mater stiffens from the inside.

In dread of cleaning the indoor hum that comes from the rum

& her lightless newspaper that lists a stunning rental lot

just south of the mouth. And so on�

through the seven lead curtains spun by the groom.

I shall think of nothing else:

her hand dry beats the cygnets hung about her waist

in that soft German air,

one of our air�s proudest moments.

Will the secret box inform you�

with an indoor hum that comes from the rum�

when a Spanish dog invades her bridal shower

running under her front wheel

and falling behind her head like lettuce shreds?

I have heard there is a motherly substance,

a heart wrapped in a newspaper in a hamper.

I see her short opal eyes

planted like barking bulbs.


The smart breezes hit

and I can sit in the brilliance but not stand�

my brain is merely a light rain of smaller brains,

thoughts & beets & clods of dirt.

The clotted yard churned beneath her whispering motorhead.

She parks for free in her own skin

smoking a servant�s tresses.

Coo and bill. Bills and change. Change and the art of revolution.

A heart wrapped in a newspaper in a hamper.



See the road that the front door must stop hunting. I had hunted,

and I was often excited.

I had a feeling that I had heard about before. It was eerie.

The hills were expertly fenced

which is where I go to look around myself.

But that seemed like all I wanted for nothing.

I had been excited alone and in the world

and all the same I still ponder on names I do not know.

I wouldn�t want to.

I get in touch while under my shirt grows a genuine airiness.

For a long time I could not see it,

but it was exciting even at the very bottom;

in the distance small & sleepy where spurge & geese are gathered

I fake enthusiasm. Or I stand still

and still I am not continuously excited.

I crawl when I lose my light. My belly is in the grass

so when the wind goes to town on me

I am not hurt badly.

I am crawling home to Mother,

sustaining low altitudes so I may finally see all I�ve read about. Even the names.

I know I had believed that I had once shuddered with� what?

I thought to myself� that single white noise with my hurt look.

I felt myself to be and wished that I had not looked.

Then I wouldn�t be excited, even when I was continuously excited.

I am excited about that.

A single white noise and my eyes with extra sheets

and a pillow I could run a dull river through.

You cannot be repeated; you remain a distance we pay civilization to keep tabs on.

Keep the cuffs on.

A cold triangle beneath her hair and about me in her air

where it all began. It all began to be excited.

And was I excited? And am I excited?



This wind�s a rose my Mother knows. I�m backing up over my own feet

the wind a belly in the air and all around me�get this�

are circles of snow, chalk, and facial powder.

I looked up suddenly,  a young girl in the sky shot and missed me.

Then she was chased away into the bush of roses.

There is a soft slug nevertheless in my spine

and it is eating the conical sections of the rose.

And what a pretty hand-reared eagle!

It runs its feathers up and down my cheek

then repeats, then grips.

The clatersal mater blows toward me, a blue petal

breaking the surface of the hot water, her guiding hand

pushing the bush toward my face.

Certain celestial bodies remain immature

they grow but do not blow.

Then repeat, then grip.

Why? I do not know;

this wind�s a rose my Mother knows.

There is a soft slug nevertheless in my spine

and it is eating the conical sections of the rose.


from Enfleurage

 � Dale Houstman








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