like some tired, poor Statue of Liberty
cupped underneath the earth's garments
earth's grinning concrete, monuments of
former Presidents, their spinning effective speech
now as ineffective as cuneiform tablets
TRYING TO GET THROUGH! to everyone
is like eyeing a wide horizon, perhaps like
being clear-spoken in spite of oneself
like disobeying the radio's mouthy heritage
Who is the masked man between & behind
teacher & pupil that dims wages beyond salvaging
Spatial tiny nucleuses unfolded into
one's mirror-glass facades, rapid expressions
Tonight the roads are as frozen as the frozen
compositions of the smiles on the faces
of every woman during an Elvis concert
If you died in her arms that night
then you must now be a ghost singing about it
Snow came, snow turned to rain, then dried
So here it is, we protrude an inch from our orbits
What blessings our bones are to not be glass
like a memory worsening during conversation
Knock knock I'm There
Every day I shout with a treble-soft voice
against the opened ceiling as if to
synthesize contemplation where I feed my stimulus
even though my argyle socks may stink
to the very core/pore/bone & may droop
ones eyes low, lower like Baudelaire's forehead
in his later years, but at least there is
a radiance in my shouting voice
Silence provides everything with an
extended strangeness like O'Shaughnessy
who said that vision & touch are what instruct us
or perhaps it is plenty more at a self-distance
like the alien-like gaze of a bird that looked
into my camera lens this evening that made me
feel part-object as I reached out hesistantly to touch it
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