he probably wondered through
the green hills of Perthshire
& thought of Americana
& "the blonde ambition"
that would soon come.
Ladies, if your
doctor gives
you
anxiety, sing,
"Die, Die, Die, My
Darling!" into his ears
while he "checks" your
heartbeat, as if with the
hands of an unmarried man;
a holy chalice under the tongue,
juice of black red cherry. I have
been inviting more howls to
rescue the air, the air you
spoke of, the air that
gave me majestic
goosebumps.
This winter,
I had not
known
what was
to come, again:
tenseness of skin,
of heart, I have become
an out-of-focus snowman in
liquid form. What does the plant
adore? Corpuscle adornments.
My rheumy previsualizing.
I am not confrontational.
I feel like the end of
a rainbow;
treasure
is flat, like
water without
waves or droplets
anywhere in sight, like
the way dawn can diminish
a candle's glow. I told Tatiana
that certain doorknobs are doped
with whispers & blended
visual gestures. Forget
the shattered past.
It is said
that
"The Golden
Age" wasn't particularly
gleaming with gold. It would be
like a Renaissance Period without all
of the regrouping. Open the night,
celebrate its closing by awaiting
its opening again. Black &
white is like a distillation
(click to enlarge them).
Plot holes in this poem,
or pot holes in this
poem. My soul
-chops are like
God
-dard.
“soul is total
vocal freedom.”
Perhaps like the animated
dancing woman in silhouette underneath
the Make Less Than $45,000/year?
advertisement. We should all
beware of safety. O Canada,
come feast upon America's
vulnerabilities!
Downward
sweep
of an axe.
Of a Moment's ass
-ociation. "some of my confusion
was just unfamiliarity" like a stuffed bird
in kingdom come. No voice is raised
against the deaf. Embrace the
complimenting monsieur
that is at odds. I speak
óbecause Because
without a
surround
-ing
we
would all
become ticklish
wenches a-laughing
in a certain place, perhaps
in the gaps of Saint-Chély-du-Tarn
& speech would always
give-way to correction
like a king correcting
a joker. I am a joke
-r. I would have
slugged
the king,
would have
been like a dreadful
child that knows what is
coming: possible intense scornings.
Months fly by in a blur. The calender
goes blind, nearly honourably, heels over
head, like a brute beast; like quick
-sand, becomes groundless
& prejudice of the sacred
abstraction of
each
day.
