Two are on the online version of Stone Canoe, a journal put out by Syracuse University (just scroll down and find my name (Tim McCoy)):
http://www.stonecanoejournal.org/SC5OnlineIndex.htm
Here are a few others, the first two not recent but published; the other three forthcoming and more recent (and you'll be happy to kn:ow that "Barn-Eyes" was started in a CRW 205 class, during a Muse exercise):
La Ville a l’Est
After the drawing by Alfred Kubin
they awoke, heavy and black. They watched at the edge
of the village. Someone spoke. Someone thought
to ring the bell. They saw him bent heavily on his staff
coming closer, shuffling through the sand. They didn’t know
he’d tried to come back before, fleeing God
for a woman’s flesh. They didn’t know God
wanted more of him. For they hadn’t seen God
swell his face or make his lips drip pus. They hadn’t seen him
stumble, blind in the stinging sand, until he’d turned back
to God. They didn’t know of God’s teeth
that opened his flesh, or of God’s body that slithered in
to purify his blood. They didn’t know the ecstasy
of the grape as it surrenders to the crush
that makes it wine. They didn’t even know why
he’d come back, or why the clouds had come. But they felt something
in his coming, something for them, terrible and bright,
coming always closer, shuffling through the sand.
In the Blue Hour
No one felt the seed
erupt as they slid endlessly
through the ice of dreams.
No extra warmth entered
blankets, no furnaces
disturbed into purr.
All the snakes remained
asleep, though one tongue
stirred behind a cold, silent tooth.
Even the drunk in the grass slept
as the frost embroidered
his body, though he floats
now, his souse having broken
his deep ice.
Only a worm felt the warm thorn
pierce its cold, a small
dissonance in a cold nocturne
that drove into the chill
earth and started its turn
through a leaf-rib, or through
a socket where sight once flared.
This almost nothing-force will up
imperceptibly, will down
into root, will stalk and leave
when all things from their cold
spring, when seeds
open violently
their limpid wings.
Crow-Shift
This moment is open
the crow mouth open frozen
the breeze stopped at black
feathers
This moment is arrested
by the asphalt-stench and
the maples having reddened
and some branches like bones scoured by ancient winds
red leaves lost
This twilight moment
beak open bead-eye open arrested coal-spark
letting us in
We are in
We flicker through our crow-eye
The breeze threads our wings our beak shuts
our wings stretched as if to alight on carrion
or blacken red maple branches
This moment is shut
The absence is us gone to find crow
The rich death in the road beckons
To feed crow-wise is black satisfaction
Barn-Eyes
into the barn-eyes into darkness blinding as sun
where I cannot see the tools the dirt the wild scrub-grass
with ragged leaves, rough, that I’ve rubbed
inversely sickly past
their green wild
towards yellow dry as if sun-stained
to death—
into the barn-eyes like owl’s eyes
into blind vision the inside of fire’s brief circumference
where I arrive
at the heart
where the hay-scent of otherness closes where I serve
the green and yellow
like a horse leaping through the springdream in celebration
of ground
Towards Poiesis
Wildgrass expanse shaking in the breeze browning in the sun-eye
Inside
whole antdoms in dirt palaces showing us what might be made,
grasshoppers in their leaps iterating our needed leaps,
Mnemosyne field mice collecting
and storing
what needs stored
Two cardinals cross over
into the crabapple. Birdsong
saturates the day away from human crossing me over
to other
inside the browned stalks and the farther green corn superlative green
in a June that burns
like eyes in a Corybantine column like the bluebells ringing through the lawn grass
wild purple eyes
of Cybele in her season
the moths in hot flutter sun-glance maddening their wings.
Inside
I become cobra in the Illinois dirt, warm on my flexing belly
(beetles darting grasshoppers leaping field mice scurrying)
foreign snake not king, not garter, not moccasin,
I slip into the earth’s closed Corybantine eye
slithering under
Cybele’s wildgrass expanse
and under corn into the prairie that storms roll dark
past the shades of what’s been lost knocked down
past the latent seeds of spring that later will float towards nascence on a breeze,
slithering down and
inside
and home to the cavern surrounding rockface smooth, damp
cottonmouths worrying the pooled water in the center
the hewn throne shaped like a cobra where I coil standing hood expanded
being who I am regardless
of loss of shades—
crossed over
to the new spine to the blind eyes that see by tongue.
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