Pre-ribbed before born,
Pre-Trib    ululation        I could live
with you in an ordinary home
at river's edge     or in a golden city     "of the Rhone"
Road's island made splendid     undull    snap

-shot     "drive me off of this picture"    sum-total
tonal light      You are always the "scene stealer"
Noble with a laughing face    I may seem dull
at first but give it time       brickwork blocking
light     Build the wall       I'm not as flat as

sponge cake made with real sponges     Cue chorus-y
droll     (I get a kick out of you)      "How long men
have lived in this region is a mystery"
World full of evil Rochefort's      Could comb your
"locks" with a diamond comb      You're my Major

apex of Appalachian-cragged history      it says
"I could repeat myself"        Alps capped in snow  
I picture Bob Ross in Marseilles in a flat terrain
painting everything in sight        A marshland
where bulls roamed & mosquitos rose

in clouds         into clouds      Swarm me
like thick stone slabs out of nowhere
rolling down from a craggy mountainside beneath
sacred oaks bringing a curious absence    solemnity of
frontiers     nearly clairvoyant      nearly engraved

by your gaze       that could wield iron swords
rough abstractions      like the way
every photograph sees differently         like
looking through Galileo's telescope
at a star-strewn sky that scrapes the Eye

of Certainty      creative containments
"ethereal bubblegum"        A wide empty void
is empty only because one's ignorance of a Creator
We're throbbingly-alive     You & I     who else?
Throbbingly-alive & kicking in the mind's

underside      like Memory's image      like aban
-doning the armor         Cobwebbed dungeons of the
past still echoing strongly in the gritting
teeth of three-ton bulldozers       A world seen

through the abuse of dirt reflects riffs of
barbarousness     but of cultivation       Centuries of
calm follows until the unwritten language
of man's manners prune the vine of
a selfish    ravenous    rage         desires symbolized

through a kaleidoscope of tears         The days
smiling with cold lips        without impassioned
applauses      definite umbilical ties to evil
like the lies of paganism still seen in stone
sarcophagi      Les Alyscamps        The
odd visual intents of the cathedral of

Saint-Trophime     Supernumeries       a world
full of inventory shrinkage           In an early
morning gig in mere suburbia I am somewhere
feeling restricted & overwhelmed       "Information
Age" can heavily-heave       like the Gauls

being crushed by the Romans        This, a classic
episode of my mental "master performance"
"Keep your hand on your wallet & a grip
on your sanity"         Where are you "accumulating"?
Hm?       Rubbing sleep    not far from the eyes

but from the stalwart core of being dominated
in over-populated dreams         I could be
wrapped in another time      another place
elegiac cornucopias          vehicles getting guadier
& guadier      The voluted columns of my

heart     like a transatlantic steamer       Every
age is a gory content              Nth-born
gimmicks          Think of Woodstock:    those couples
that were sharing their joints & cornflakes
now have crackling joints & are perhaps flaky

with corns           Same "Headlines of History"
Nth-born gimmicks         the way a woman may
line her thighs with goodies if she wears
unstylish baggy elastic-edged underwear
Native population of setting booby-traps

i.e., public embarrassment being profitable
"I heard that" someone mumbles
Evaporated I become      feels like long
-winded diary entries but I reflect "feeling"
like contours of hills outlined in colors

Pottery    poetry    silked-spice    inward wares
unawares    I gather mirrors in the center
of our explanades      the ones where more is
more   (music from a jewel box?)     like
a palace of atmospheric-neutrals      You could

be sea-grass        a similar tone      We're left
within infinite space as if Houdini had
come in & decorated          Your eyes add
"height" to my yearning        to be a tiny specimen
in your sight (modesty)        My youthful beard

is crooked            Eight years ago
I was an unknown Octavian-like
individual in a small town        merely to suggest
certain delicacies & character        tempered by
claustrophobic surrounding

Now        even slightly mellower        no excavation of
seasonal grasping          bearded I rise        awaiting
too late  perhaps  for love still tugging at my
torso of the dangling beribboned dart in my
Corinthian-like facaded ribcage                  I feel

engulfed in gulfs of blue       the way northern-folk
seek sun in the south           warming up the mental canvas
ablaze          strawberry patches flourishing
like the unhaunted garden of an asylum      
perhaps that of which Van Gogh gasped at in wonderment

on the Christmas Eve of l888      following the irrevocable
rupture with Gauguin          "Stir crazy"
One can nearly hear the soft shoes approaching
walls that weave in & out           Somewhere
"lost" amidst this is a network of a fifth sense

like nostalgic repetition        Humor hem'd in frolic
& variations of variations        like grandma fighting
off a crazed orangutan at the edge of a cliff
with a suitcase of money she had found in
the backseat of a Chevrolet convertible      "Information

at the root of humor?"         Humor is only relative
to our consistently-evolving expectations      
The energy of youth allows one to seek for anything
the abilities to fill gaps in patterns
like the government eventually rooting

& resorting to a Mexican dugeullo:
"murder & take no prisoners!"         "Never laugh
when the hearse goes by / For you may be
the next to die.."                 My point has
been insured           this poem stretched around

the earth       balanced on who's forehead?
"Stressed" each word         Will you come
over to pirouette with the silhouettes of my
rightstandingness?      Perhaps soon        Perhaps
my voice will crack & I will turn away from

the idea & run down the street
(If so      meet me for a get-together       Do you
like cheese? coffee? crackers?)              Comic
imagination               The winter birds are everywhere
their "tweets" the only sound around          

the surround-sound of the tree-openings
I will wait here in this dead-grassy stretch
of quiet        I have a spot outlined for you     
               Fog's patching certainty leaves me
               busy-bodied in expectation

At night the cloud-changing sky matters not
Here       the marshmallow softness of ground
with Anticipation     like a hundred buffalo
running through my torso


Animals         deep in our hearts      deep in our arts
        I move along the galloping pack      It is said that
rats that are exposed early to music of Schoenberg & Mozart
    show a strong liking in later life for other music by the
composer that they were raised on & reject the composer
      that they were not raised on         I have become
  accustomed to these Gregorian chants of winter
Clouds      foggy       I am an animal of antiquity     as gentle
    as Oliver Twist     I have become attached umbilically 
to the mellow-minimalistic piano-melodies in this room's
    impregnable coma         You too could be spoiled by
the hypnotic expansion      eking varicolored spotlights
    where music attempts to shear the air here       Once the music
 has ended it can still be heard      I hear it now
     Satie's tunes (his fingers were like a Mother's affection)
I could bounce upward, downward, in a communal pool
showing off my spiritual freedom       I look back to
see if the compact disc had actually ended          It had         I turn
around, amazed, still able to hear the soft keys playing
delicately       My ears & mind prodded by music's
unending proboscis         Animals in our arts       that's
what I said          The artist & mystics of the early & middle
Stone Ages watched animals, modeled animals, drew
animals, dreamed of animals            They had thought
that they themselves had become animals ...
friends, competitors, victims          In the late sixtees
hippies became polychromatic lizards           Occidental
life           nonplussing the globe          (a rigid goosing)
O tempora! O mores!          What of these incunabulas?
     a peeled pellicle      passes into oblivion

I delight in every recall           If my animal-dialogue
becomes "mindless revolutionary jargon"
will you consider me oblique & shrewd like some
sapped arch-conspirator?       At least I'm eye
-filling like dusty gypsum hills before a 
raging blizzard            It's a matter of the face
What's the matter?    What's "the" matter?     What's "matter"? 
Battered by unconvenable weight of sang-froid 
Outside      slick rain-swept surfaces         Inside    animals
amidst animals          An artistry that is capable of 
touching anyone who listens        archiving the pearl
in one's heart