A Comedy.
Involving two lips.

for oriental
native minds.
Even though

you never
never write,

the substrata
beneath my

hollows out,
& here,
I aim for hope,

but remain
in the field
of some

Irish epic
where I sit
& watch cattle

being driven out
for slaughter.
Sad, yes,

but suitable,
focusing on logic,

somewhat lesser
than a
grand narrative.

to summarize

is dissected
by a vast

a Most Wanted
of words

with shark teeth,
wide open,
gaping with emotion,

where my heart
appears through
another door,

where another heart
turns to leave through
my own lively valves

but I stop before
the holographic
bandaids of

The Past, Present
& Future
become altogether

aware of
the way that

we disconnect
from reality
when we sleep,

when we slip
into Reality,
when we become

everything at once.
This is no Comedy.
No. This

is the womb
of defect,
a Drama

for an earthquake,
or as hollow
as 21st century

Listen. My lips
will not move

unless you
a chiselled-out statue.

I hope no one
will interpret
my speech

when you careen
out of control
to stop my

from operating.
Beating inner-electric

thyroid, you are
a fairytale & you
are breaking

the mold.
Your lips,
with a

talkative truth,
speak swordly,
I cannot believe this!

But I do.
With limited lips,
the mind

is drenched.
Heart of holly
-hocks. Grand

-fatherly types,
not clocks, beat
like drums.

I am a
lifelong resident
of indecisive

action, as if
I am securely
trapped inside of

a chambre à
quatre portes;
perfected missteps

involving confetti
& animation.
On the contrary,

this is funk stew,
all of it.
What else

shall occupy
my time
this late in the day

when I am
craving love,
aching for

a moment of risk,
of gamble,
to express

what lips
cannot hold,

remnants of
a Longing.

This, perhaps,
a film yet to be

a language within
a language,
where the piper

plays a cold tune,
where I
will look for

odd characteristics
& quirks.
I will

find them myself
& the muscles
in my neck

will soften
as the baritone
grows louder,

as the orchestra's
grinding wheel

as tough as
Malcom X's "Y",

the incidental
echoes of
my flaming hot

to burst through
our polarities.

I aim for
a destination.
Where are you

& why are you
not listening to me?
I apologize, I do,

like Plato
to Socrates.
I am your

Mister Potato Man
Poet Laureate,
hotter than

Buenos Aires air.
In another
geographical timeline,

maybe we were
Egyptian & we
ruled the night,

didn't we?
as if we were
comic book characters,

as if we
collected garlic
& lemon

& placed them
in takeout containers.
We sat

in our lavish deserts
watching the camels
graze by.

This was
our Baywatch.
Within the

palinodic garden walls,
we spoke
of childish things

but maintained
their level
of romance

the way a
Victorian hangman
tells his love

the sweetest
sensitive to the subtle.



To transmute every thought
with the potentiality of the
human embryo, as if corresponding

in another realm that knows
no confrontation, that diminishes risk
& turns off every tongue

to accomplish new ways of sight,
where shadows violate only themselves,
where we are subconsciously

influenced by the Invaluable,
is the pictorial infusion that is
synchronistically bound with

the absence of the forms of connection
that the cunning eye accepts
with deaf ears.