congealed in the center. How strange to possess
certain thoughts; a flood of memory, like rain-
pour, eye-soar, wounds never to speak for, thrill
enjoyed like a novelist finding words in sympathy.
Could use an icecube, I am often susceptible to
intimacies, turned around and said “freeze.”
I feel like a Largo, riding the Orient Express,
T.S. Eliot frames with a silver chain on the vest,
disastrous probiscus ... what about dangling a
deadly spider over a silent witness? Oh, at last
the storm draws closer, in character, like a
woman with a black comma of hair falling over
the eyebrow. Recognition is wrecked, like an
unactorly performance, no visible human inter
-vention, venting on preconceived notions:
Mostly the trick has been to find unknowns,
like a monster of Beatlesque sattire overpower
-ing an atmosphere. Concocted memories. I am
passing around a hat, throw in your dreams. Face,
smoothe with fusion-power, a moment devoid.
Walking tip-toe does strong things to shin muscles.
Imagine unrecoverable spaces. Think saucy.
I could be standing nonchalantly beside a dinosaur
femur. Cameras holding their breaths during summer.
Drawing flak from its owner. Long melodious
complaints; teeth-like iron-work, tongue like a
fuselage, erupts. There are times when I feel like
there is a boiling egg in my throat, or maybe it is in
my heart, maybe I don’t really know where it is at,
like a drunkard trying to shave, looking in a mirror,
seeing someone else, not seeing anything, maybe
spots of blood on the neck.
