Lugubrious thalamus, "on" the nerves,

when certain individuals enter into
my atmosphere, my florid gravimetric.
    High sky, yellowable uterine,
demonstratable allergen. When the blood
begins to flow, I'm like a Mamaluke,
ancient castles with florid flowers
of oleanders, dolce far niente, narrow
nasal, nature-fakers like Al Gore.
   Where is that obese zombie fumbling
off to? You cite information regarding
the fact that Humans have Burning Questions
about circus contortionists, but leave me be,
I just want to hear the violin & piano--
beaux art--hidden within the yashmak
of my apelike limbo.
   My erstwhile disdain for spittle-flinging
mouthbreathers is not quite adequate,
for who else can be this sizzingly happy?



Sunset remains the same, the tilted earth,
the slanted autumnal sky.

My eyes mistake nothing.
The book in front of me is white & red.

Maybe, just maybe,
I'm the president at this moment

reading from a teleprompter,
except that I am reading my thoughts

as if they were significantly expanded;
grand architecture in a weary pathos.

Underwater, at sunset, the fish
feel less tempted, so they think.

Tempted fish, only those that resist
are happy; the other fish,

they meet their destiny with a snag.
Reeling, ranting, this is what poetry is!

the way nostalgia barks up
my eternal tree, exits out of me, enters

into another memory that I have yet
to run into, but is soon to be revealed

where even the wind cannot reach.
Remembering certain girls, like the wind,

a frizz, a fragile gleam in their sparkle.
I have always wanted to say to each of them:

"I am not supposed to know your secrets
but your eyes keep revealing them to me."

Snag! baseless substitutions of reminiscing,
like substituting color, the way a school bus

drives by, or was it only the bright yellow sun
running laps? Or a starry sky reminding me

of reaching into an old, fragile jewel box
with eyes closed, feeling for the spores

of a time long past. These thoughts free me
from an atmosphere containing oppression,

containing an always-aching mother--
back-aches for the feverish. And here,

I lay out the "slaughter rule" & kiss
another day goodbye.