11.27.2010

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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




11.23.2010

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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.