To get a tongue
-implant to
talk slicker

than Dick Cavett,
a multiple "I": I
will be back soon

to bug you.
is not

a love poem,
it is a love scrotum.
My dreams

should receive
Oscars & Grammys,
& many people

would perhaps
echo the same
for Joe Brandt's

1937 vision
of an earthquake

Los Angeles
"in the future"
(but before,

complete silence;
not a bird in sight).
While the world

is anxious & worried,
answering with

full of vigor
& sneering

I cut through
emerald grasses,
rush through

traffic with
"heavy feet,"
skim through

rural gardens,
remove stems
from seeds of

fruit, sip tea in
orchards, as if

it were all
warm-up drills.

Late last night
while driving
on the long

dark highway,
were being read

on the radio.
Someone read
a poem

by William Blake
& were straining
their voice.

I will check later
for cracks
in the windshield.

I felt like
a behaviorist.

There is no limit
to indefinite

like attempting
to reduce the size
of a mouthpiece

so that it fits
the shape
of someone else's.

Only fools
never expect
legends to die,

& when it
inevitably occurs,
it is like

blacking out
a blinker.
How soon

I forget
that I
am not non

like the throb
of an engine.

From the prequel:
be careful
on that bridge

that wobbles
underneath your feet.
There are ducks

flying above
a car
in the distance,

or are those
vultures? No,
too small.

can often
provide one with

& unsupported

that follow you
like a bright shadow,
to be used

through nonlinear
While you are

into all that ugly
fashion, why not
get some frizzy hair

overlaid with a haze
of anonymous
lightning of linking,

like some inward
Voices click here.

I will cut
a window
into an old one,

riffage of light
like sumptuous melodies,
a kind of

like how

a child's brain
is futuristic-filled,
like how

I would read
Popular Science

while sitting on
the toilet as a child
when visiting

my Grandparents
during the holidays
on Lake Oconee.

It was all about
the spaceship
-looking vehicles.

I remember
how my Grandmother

when I asked her
if I could have
the newspaper

that showcased
a day-old deceased
Kurt Cobain.

What really put it
over the moon
was how she

handed it to me
after momentary
lapses of contemplation.

Found written in a journal of mine:

Somewhere in the world, January 2010:
"Roadside killing,
bodies thrown"

"Two, passport
problems not solved"

"attackers had
heart attacks, death"

"Generator remained
stuck in the shawl"

"Kidnapping was
seeing kidnapping"

"Father killed
in front of son,
the sun"

"95 thousand
from Airtel showroom

"Womens' bodies
from the blood!
Five arrested
in the hunt"

The outside world
is nothing
more than

an enormous
website. I hear

Or is that

on the door?
There is
a forced absence

in this area.
When a book
is closed

shut, the image
is unseen.
There is

to flee,
like childbirth.



What has reinspired all of the original horror
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

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