Equipped
with disinformation before speaking
is
like saying to oneself (while looking in a mirror):
“My
appearance makes the mirror look better.”
Freud
is still exploring collisions in the Pipelines of Time
&
it’s true how our thoughts wander,
especially
when we’re wounded like pups,
for
it is on this very night of May 2nd,
2013,
that
I thought of a particular game of chess with L.M.
I
feel that chess pieces “die” in every game.
Shall
we play by not moving a piece to keep them “alive”?
Chess
pieces die & are eventually resurrected; they become zombies,
the
living dead! The king never officially “dies”; he’s “mated.”
Mating,
without a mate? What a horrible ending to a love story
when
the queen is captured. What of this horror?
like
the Lady of Shalott floating down the river to Camelot.
The
king is always surrounded.
He
must have a perpetual, nervous twitch,
&
thoughts are often like mental throat-slits.
I
learned today that my father wanted to fight his brother
a
couple of years ago, over their mother’s estate
in a
sleepy town in South Carolina.
It is
creepy what people do over money,
asphyxiation,
grounded, barbells to the gut,
behooves
the beehives full of buzzing,
just
want to keep Sleepy John Estes playing in my ears,
let
the bluest blues wash away the blues,
let
everyone else feed the seed.
I
must be the ideologically backward-type—some days
I see
a dog with its teeth in another dog’s throat,
or
friends turning to enemies, same thing, or rubber bullets
that
need to be wrapped in rubber—“stop gap” to violence,
separating
lovers, decoupling, destroying progress—
families
torn in knots, my receding hairline
abbreviated
daily, where do I go for justification?
Rabelais’s
Carnival, that’s where! The deluded barbarians
envy
mathematics—class warfare, Truth or Dare?
Content
of nonchalance. No one reads these poems
&
I’m content with that, because the collected words read themselves . . .
ALL
TOGETHER NOW! sing sing sing O you choirs of Futurist characters
that
readily fit the pre-existing glimpse of . . .
Interruption:
someone asking me if I want to play cards.
My
hand is always dealt. I bend the corner of an Ace card—
the
streetlights grate the sky, airspace spewing chemicals.
My
lament has already passed, so I smile,
smile
wide with wider entails, like a mannequin
smiling,
or wailing, behind the glass box
where
dialect “interpenetrates with public space”—
& with all of these pent-up feelings, how does one face
the world?
