Daily Progression

Daily progression turns to flies in a jar startled by noises.
I think of cutting my hair again but there are too many
intermissions & mental subterraneous eruptions of interruptions.

The other night I dreamt that I had a head full of hair.
I smiled in the mirror caressing my long fern-like locks;
a velocipede into inter-specifics. I felt volatile yet sastified.

Shouldn't Woody Allen be bald by now? I observe dusty particles
in the sunlight like a wide-eyed pony staring at a single rawhide loop.
Sure, I wanted to leap overboard like a paranoid squadron

onto a boggy underground at the chance to fructify my stance
to be a harmless poison in the nuclear fallout root-system of your love.
A formulaic horror opus is every relationship. A deep ant-hill.

I should cut my hair again but scissors & electric razors
are the enemies to a hive of flourishing or unflourishing hair.
My head will soon be as oddly silvery-transparent as moonworts.

What few ears have escaped no place whereby to contract
a reason to enquire the groaning bite of Listening?
Old men & their hairy ears, lavender glaze in The Hearing.

Hoist colors to my eye-ladder, germinate these dreaming pupils!
I move like a sideling to see refractions & go swiftly backward
like a lobster to the glow-worming youth, perhaps when hair

flowed over my forehead. Organs playing within my organs.
No music can cure nostalgia. Instead, the tunes only confirm
the harmonies of memory content to rest in secrecy.



The poet's veins gives directions to the town--
our muse is alive, the sun is as alive as a
thriving hive this summer; a grip that never loosens.

Beach balls are kicked until they explode,
soon to write on a napkin through the voice of the
Prince of Wales. "A meditation on deep feelings."

Oil on the whales, earthly vomit, mopping sweat
off of my forehead. I took a deep breath
& inhaled a cluster of stars.

If nothing else, we'll encompass every theatrical drama,
flavorful recreations of mystery, like a wedding
that is interrupted by murder.

Never hush, hush, sweet crooning girl, your voice
could reap profits--copy & paste if you agree.
Benefits reaped, like ideas that are turned upside-down.

I'm careful to be seen, like Hyde;
emotional & overwrought like some Ennio Morricone score.
I twist in this chair, the night remains muggy,

mugged-heat simmers like a POW camp.
I never settle like a sea-bird. The air of our era
is as squalid as impure wool. I ruffle the wings of summer.

The silence is broken by whooping & yelling
that I hear coming from the backyard. Again, the neighbors
& their backyard barbeque Broadway plays.


I'm thinking of bright red tomatoes
as large as boxing gloves. It's how
certain foods hit you in the face, c
louding your mind, but I don't even
like tomatoes. There's a film titled
Oranges Are Not The Only Fruit.
I wonder what it is about, but hav
e no plans to watch it unless the o
pportunity sparks, of course. Why
do tomboys stop being tomboys w
hen their breasts fit into large cup
s? This is not a joker's scripted pa
lette. Liam said that he loves pine
trees. We are both from small tow
ns. He loves the way certain fore
sts in small towns appear mysteri
ous & ominous. We are both from
small towns where bright red tom
atoes are likely grown, where fath
ers raise their sons to think that th
ey should be boxers, where "home
cooking" has more meanings than
food. I should be sleeping tight, bu
t I feel over-anxious, thinking of m
etaphors that would fit into poems
that I may or may not write, or fil
ms that I would love to create wit
h surreal production sets, & who r
eally cares when one scratches on
eself? It always seems to be a pul
p topic. If my father or mother ha
d of been artists, I would have like
ly wound my watches too tightly &
dedicated all of my time to seekin
g the visual acuity of conventional
importances. I am an early mornin
g rush, a batter of sentimental dra
ma, turning the tables, breaking w
aves before breaking the Adirond
ack chairs on the beach in front of
the breaking waves where I will li
kely sit if I ever visit Hawaii. Nev
er keep yourself apart from your r
oots; it will be like trying to do a cr
ossword puzzle with itchy eyes.