________________________________________________________

Flood
the secret.
Find

the silence,
the symptoms
are

a kind of chess,
a kind of Tolstoy
character

within
the extremities
of movement.

Hits you
like a
pyrotechnician's

miscue, cue
the touch
eliminate confusion

Confucious
was having
coffee

at a breakfast
din
-er when

I
walked up
to him

and
handed him
oak tree acorns

that
I
had collected.

The clouds
walk on
themselves

this evening.
A shortage
of sunlight.

The shadow
of the earth
moving

upon your face.
I have found
the silence,

it was behind
the hanging porch
fern. I have

found the secret,
it was behind
the water-front

in your throat,
it appears
excessive.

I take your words
minting them
like coins

into my heart.
words
alight from flight

had burst
out of my heart,
flewn up

like
a leaping crowd
at a concert.

it all recurs
sanguine to start
all over again.

I am
bearded
& all a-clam,

driving through
the garish city,
the lights

blazing
with glam;
midnight blues

of
the nitty-gritty.
Caught

in
the pillows
of your precious

-ly sarcast
-ic-elastic
mind.

what
is more than
imagination,

a kind of
super-realism
collected

in conversation.
an echo
returns to itself

to reflect
to be upheld
by the results.

________________________________________________________

Gratefully, morning repeats. A mounted flame
of sunrays I see through the white blinds,
an epic adagio of light, almost a narrativity
of explicit vocal personage (sunrays of Scelsi).
My eyes rise with the light, irises improvise
acousmatiquely into awakening---it has become
a yellowish-violet bruise upon the thigh
of which overwhelms the whole, or hole,
in the valley of my waking in the melted candle
of memory---of where you rest here in the
blossoming buds of my mind. A night
we remember,---shake smutty-hips
into my image, deglamourize these scenes!
I let the events of our Time pass through me
so intensely that I cannot close off
my patterns of thought, like repeated assertions,
surgeon of the eye, rescue me from this
tugging pull,---pinch out this possible cracked rib,
a strong affinity for the Future upends the Past,
but the Now needs milking. I rise, wearing a
sharkskin suit, silver sparks from the bedpost,
grunting & displaying remarkable transportation
from here to there.

THE PHYSICAL UNCANNY

The physical uncanny
hits
the enemy's muscles.

They begin
swearing
at high rates.

Prolonged foible
of feeble
blade-tongues.

A default
of thy throb,
all is clear

from
east to west
this day,

the cat
stares at me,
looks down

& then
back up at me
again.

These furry
queens. I
drink from

the breast
of this day
so quiet.

A Threnody
springs into my ears
like

a great
national figure
on the scene.

Doubt
is
the prophetic voice

of rehearsing
for Surprise.
The winter yard

is iced
like a crust
of makeup.

My perfumed wrists
electrify
like south-winds

bringing forth
life, a sunshine
of scent,

as this day
all-bright;
the big invisible sinus

of carrying a burden
with the force
of a waterfall.

To interrupt a soul
setting sail
while I need

to find a way
to get up
off of the pine

& get dressed.
We the people
are too laid-back

in this world.
We the people
are too cradle-song'd

& last-drop-of-milk'd
in this heated howl
of a world.

Our chairs
should be
STONE CUTTERS.

Earlier,
I
realized that

I
hold my
computer mouse

the way
Alexander Pope
would have.

________________________________________________________

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.