INHUMAN

i.

On days when I am not human,
my hypothetical portfolio
of optimistic control is buried
in La plaça del Diamant,
but my words become
strategic maneuverings
of language which is itself nothing
but largely united recurring dreams
which has perhaps entered
into my bloodstream
travelling like a finite game
at lightspeeds; pure phosphor dots,
one extravagant cycle
that repeats itself as if
in a moment of liberation.

ii.

On days when you are not human,
haystacks & distant woodlands
burn like bullfighting.

iii.

Elsewhere,
my spring has unfurled,
has been long delayed
but patience is the thing
which carries us
note by note to our
flower-strewn meadows
without ever reaching
a moment of open conflict
that is all equipped
with surrealistic Urphänomen,
but where Interference Patterns
coalesce; where our unruly
childish alien-like doppelgängers
mock our humanity
with a sustained F sharp.

___________________________________________

Through the greenest burgeoning trees

a white van sits in a driveway, the silhouette

of a man's head rushes back & forth like rain

that suddenly begins without a resource,

but today there is embroidered sunlight,

seems brighter, nearly infuriating, animated,--

an unbounded eruption of Damascus.

I could be a volcanologist when I boot up

my computer, or like when G.A. cupped

my head in her hands, pausing at first,

then forcing herself to continue.

April rain, shifted, shaved my face as if to

trace my flesh as if taboo could fit inside

a handbag. My body was created for

holding tightly. This was years ago before

the U.S. sported a dictator; this was before

Seance Specialists were writing speeches

to faux intellectuals for the pleasure of

ringing alarm-bells. A terrorist bites into

a candy-cane, everyone bites their tongues,

their nails. Polydimensionally. I am asking

myself if I could duplicate personal expression

by staining underwear for Art's sake.

Somewhere in a hotel two lovers are sitting

so close together in the lobby that their thighs

are overlapping. I think of this because

an episode of fantastical & realistic memory

is born like a buffalo race that is held in Florence.

The balsamic vinegar of my mind is boiling

like a valedictorian's ego. I dislike negative people.

They are like anthropomorphisms; their mouths

like woodsnakes, their words with deficiencies,

spindles of round-end shingles that look to

twist out spinal-cords. Satire has arrived.

I go to sleep like a Renaissance painting,

the character behind the oils. I miss being

loved. I open my heart like a proverb

& grip the safety gear on the rails

of Answer's undressing.

WHEN I HOLD A CAMERA

i.

Sometimes when I hold a camera
I feel nearly transfixed as if with a spear
turned towards my own everblooming

ii.

Sometimes when I hold a camera
I feel like I am diving into a forgotten sense
of every property of human existence

iii.

Sometimes when I hold a camera
I feel as though I am unbandaging it
from its speechlessness with careful unison

PEEPHOLE

There is a problem with closed quotes tonight
because it feels unethical, fatty & too refined,
like ruby slippers on the wrong feet. I drank the
coffee far too late, it is a shifty deluge upon my
head. "Eat the Whole Beast"---My star is on a
trek, my star has left the vicinity, flipping through
filipinia. How do you feel? She is never happy
unless the thread is thinner than the needle.
Today in the sunlight I felt like John Locke
or either Lewis or Clark or Lewis and Clark,
and in heaven, there is no weight above that
space to fall upon the shoulders---moldy spots
will not be digested, there are no anniversary
celebrations, no greeting cards, no shadows.
I received a bearhug from God & a simulated
assessment task for the entire area of my body.
We are all as small as Insectivora or fat-tailed
mice lemurs. I am child-like, an altruist for the
Great Divine! I attempted cartwheels as a child
but could never muster out an Emerald City
of bedazzlement, but 1-2-3 Redlight! was like
a field drama that always escalated. I attempt
at clearness in my explanation, but it comes out
as background noise, or an adolescent's
schoolyard taunt, yet I have not had the
opportunity to speak as if I were some modern,
funky christening spoon dipped into my heart's
fuming rainbow. I have blurred out every apparition.
My head is a strange balloon's nasal pitch
when popped and let loose. We all want a peephole,
a little extra time, money. We all want a peephole.

___________________________________________

The poem I aim to write never comes to me
but now it will. I have confessed it,
perhaps not as I should,
but as I am able. I sneeze out poems
for Spring's popping color-spread.
This familiar pollen: placid catalogues
of reproduction, regenerative
seasonal coordinates, reminded
of a love that once left me upon
a dusty path in secession, whirlpools
of solitude, thick foggy yellow
in this abbreviated air, my lungs stuffed
like Thanksgiving turkeys, dark yellow
as seasons rotate like cyclic endometrial lining,
turns me into an Asian man.
Why Spring? I could have written
of summer, should write about the future,
not of the now, a Huxley-like protuberance
rising from my fingers, but furtive
and docile. Love, a season of itself,
within itself. I handed her an island
of particular earth, we scented out the voids
of birds and let their harmonies echo
into us until we became crisp sheets of sky,
and above all voices, the song, the whales
we became in our childishly-sly oceanic waves.
Our light, definitive whiteout. Even now
I part it, bending it back; the key to anything
is everything, and everything consumes
a substitute. My poignance is pinpointed
by perhaps what I say, or do not say.
I sneeze. Someone scoop my eyes from
this window. I surf through memory each day
as if opening a penance. I have outsmarted
the ability to flee. I hear a train in the distance.
It arouses my attention. Every day, there is
an odd kind of emotion that sneaks up on me,
like holding out a promise to a machine
by informing it that it will never become an
isolated agent. These forces have recurring
limps; the involuntary muscle-contractions
of thought, of time, of memory, of love lost,
will always be like geysers of the soul
when one has already accepted them as
regulatory.