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a day ago, the muggy heat

was a creeping thing

between the brainpan,

like a bombardier beetle

with its reactive chemical

compounds, raising its

temperature to the

nearing point of boiling water—

then the rain came—

then a dialectical spasm

of Cold brought a beautiful

muffing-up—table reading:

leafing through JFK’s death,

appalling nightmares—

what were my grandparents

doing at this time? I am trying

to grease the November night,

popping a star like a

celestial pimple; gumming up

space, as I space out

about everything aurora-like

& children are playing

basketball in the street

with sweaters on; metaphors

for Time as it sweats

through the pants-leg

of burning fabric, stinging

the legs, wasp-like translations—

what would happen if

the universe were alive

with the spirit of human life?

To question its authenticity,

verified by something

probably called   “           ”

—a question is often answered

by a response that

shakes the globe—

Underdogs of a war—

my grandfather was in the Service

but he does not like

to talk about it—no one speaks

of their past in my family

with such great emotion

& detail like that of my uncle,

but my Mother just told me

about a man who was

caught stealing electronics

at Best Buy; he ran out

of the door into a pack

of Marines, a pack of wolves

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                  .                                  .                           .                   .                             .
 .       .                                                    .                 .                          .  .            .                                .
           .                      .                           .            .                      .                         .               .
                       .                     .                           .                    .                                          .               .
 I just want         .         .                                               .      .                        .       .                                 .

              .                                                            .     .                                                 .

                                    to reach up        .                                         .

         .                    .                    .                                                               .                        .              .

                        .                                               & smear 

.         .              . .              .                               .                                            .         .                       .

            .                                                  .                   .                      the moon       .               .

.                                 .

      .           .                                                                                                        in every direction 

                          .                            .               .                                    .
                                         .                        .                .                       so that                             .

.                .                               .

                                                                        the entire sky      .              .                     .

      .      .                                          .                 .                                 .                        . .            .            .

                                 would resemble     .                         .                           . .        .   .    .

         .                  .                    .  .         .              .      .      .                .                      .                     .

 a popcorn ceiling.                .                                            .         .                                                         .

               .                                                               .               .       .                           .            .

      .            .                                   .        .                                                      .                                 .

        .                   .                                    .                           .                     .                    .                  

THE OBJECT OF FLATTERY

The Object of Flattery
assumes a figurative sense—

the feeling of fabric, let’s say,
on one’s naked body in a cold,

dark room (goosebumps and
moonlight) illicitly thought of

as ‘proper’ to be without another
body represented, so that the

Thought turns around an ample
amount of sufficient ideas,

which therefore suggests a disguise,
in pun, to the room in which

the fabric rests upon the body
of one whole living kinship;

pincushions of an active sense
of imagination; the brain, like

a bee’s entrance into a nest,
the blade of a tongue, a suddenness

of a decision as if pondering which
aromatic soap to “try” next.

Aromatic money-spending
spanking the globe. I once wore

clocks, or watches, until I realized
that I only need a watch

to watch me at night while I sleep,
ticking me into a dream, tics

in the fluttery chest,—the idea that
a watch is worn as if to suggest

that one has just come from the outside.