________________________________________________________

Never consult
the Genius--pre-Socratic
philosophers

of life
of desiccated, steep
learning curves.

My great aunt
is now deceased,
I approach it

as knowing
but I
am no Guru,

a
naturally-bizarre Bee
-thoven;

the "fleshing out"
of a character.
Focal hem

-ispheres feared
to inadequately bite
impressionistically.

I
am no techno
-scientist

but vision
is creeping
into the B[leak]

with
a particularly
keen eye.

In what
is being touted
as "dark times"

is
only suppressed
by lippy tangos

& unfruitful
minds.
My aunt's

warm bodytrails
still float,
still scamper

amidst
these walls,
spotlight

on
the "catching up"
of facework--

learned dormancy,
automata
of omitting,

inseparable
meaning of
blithe indifference,

"Why Patterns"
like Feldman.
Death

can be
a heartbreaking
seizure

in the chest,
or a kick
in the face

to substitute
a phrase,
but truth

is not
individually physical.
None of us

lives apart
from the land
entirely.

I
know exactly
what God did.

God
implanted
a poetic device

into my chest cavity.

SEE NOTHING,

SAY NOTHING.

Even then,
on quiet evenings
it is like

a bomb exploding
in a theatre
like from

a film scene,
a Hollywood explosion
making me cringe,

a hollow rung
in the bone
of

regurgitating disappointment--
a mental jack-screw
resulting in nothing.