Please move the sunlight to the front of 
                                                                 the fading beauty queen—
what is Old Age
                                                           =      heartbeats-over-heartbeats

To survive 
is to interpret gaseous vulgarity as what it is not 
with a breast plate of righteousness 
that is like neurosis-force 
as if the characters on the pages of a play that you are reading 
                 stepped out of the play & spoke to you face-to-face: 

pyramid of life containing a cone of visual divinity, 
an allegorical cathedral—

                                                            I watched as my grandmother 
tried to place flowers upon a gravestone 
inside of an image of a stained-glass window—
                                                            the archaic colors reflecting onto her craggy 
face, a heavenly banquet, 
shadows fitting between light & object: 

the body figuration of ones whole terrestrial mass & 

the mind/mind               s                    p                 i                         t 

 s                                                 p                  lit

                                      s                    p                  r            i           t

out        of        focus 
to touch the sonic, roaring phantom ahead of us— 
nothing but traces in the shape of Lions


pages of a magazine so thick that you think
that two pages are stuck together, so you rub
your index finger & thumb at the top-corner
of the page so as to separate them apart___
my pores are singing; choral Singapore___
I could be the Temminck’s Tragopan’s blue,
bluer, awkward nudity, plucked & walking;
the rancid scent of cat-feces fills my nostrils
___how quickly things can change from be
-autiful to ghastly___where is my neutral
Pronunciación?___My life is full of one
throbbing Paradox, sharpest nothings,
enter an air of a phantom presence, who___

the old Jamaican man tells me that he moved
from Jamaica when he was nineteen years old;
lived in Florida, then to California, then to
South Carolina, now in Georgia; his brother
is a farmer in Jamaica; he is returning soon,
will pack just enough clothes to get by with;
tells me that I should visit someday; the food is
delicious; he is not a slave to convention___
I once spied on a nude girl who took a dive: sat
-urated fat seeped into the swimming pool, pubes
swaying like sea-weed. I was nineteen years old,
like the Jamaican, my sanity hidden in the foot
-hills of a rural countryside, neutral, as my body
glowed like an abstract___

Where/ where/ where/ is my Leonor Fini?
my Gala? My Reality is a fantasy: two
juxtaposed positions, distant & true, passive
& vulnerable, like a wounded chimera___
give me singularity without questions, beauty
between her twixt___diverse glow, surround
-ing the Catholic bell-tower, ring ring ring!
above my skull, halo-glow golden, burning I
turned to see the figure of a fugue, dressed
like a new-comer, or dressed-to-impress, but
she walked passed me into the arms of a man
that looked like radioactive puns, light in
their eyes, the heart’s starchild. I walked away
from the scene, found myself in some strange
place, sat upon a
sharp toilet—Am I too
young to be so worried? Paint me fainted,
academic-fungi, my horoscope is horror,
reddish obituary ink___the sun questions its
light; the moon showers in the sun’s relevant
fruit___piths entangled___the voice on the roof
gnawed my name, echoing in a que, Gothic
as a gargoyle atop a cathedral—was this a visible

every poem that I expel, it’s like I am lying
on a dissecting table, I feel it boil up inside
of my mind, & anxiety’s arching ax comes
upon me as I expect some noise, or voice,
or some sudden something to interrupt the
thoughts that arise inside of me—a toothed,
serrated blade, typhooning my poetic geyser!
___O, my grave awaits my body, but my
spirit will not see any of it as my remains
lie hand-in-hand with my love, absorbing
Death’s impact!—what love, do you say?
the one that awaits me in the middle of a
dense musculatured jungle—my ape
of nothingness, swinging to-and-fro,
my duchess of the soil, my wood nymph,
the earth fossilizing me like an Olenellus—
a permanent window, extinct, but remaining___

Art wears the Spoken Mathematics of Histoire.
Remember nervous, poignant faces___Remember___
beware, art wears us, art is an entire ocean, noted
longitudinally___are you cold in your dreams?___
Fertile jazz, adorned nerves of the Nude: anatomy
spattering circular___Our ocean, your ocean,
deep space shine, rêvieries, skull is skim,
in Play, landscape of Cartier-Bresson’s fingers___
Earlier, honeysuckle aroma filling the air,
as well as the scent of grilled burgers
mocking my hunger: the best of both worlds___
One day I will wake up in a post-Facebook
world, or, I will wake up looking into the face
of Facebook’s postmodern society;
Facebook-posts’ Postmodernism. Spiritual mini
-ature, myriad of disguises I grandeur into___
extra avant-garde jewelry that is continually adorned
in the guise of absolutely retained retina
communication___moon-ink fills my fingers___
skull, away from its light; sun’s thick passive
echoing; pinkish, like your blush___



       I’m a slaughtered lamb, one would think that I had gone under the knife.
I let the blood of my body empty-out, becoming a crimson river,
what soft allure, what grotesques we all are? We all want warmth, 
but foul water, foul, sickening, sickly, air particles sucked into our lungs
is all that we have—timorous toadstools sprout, charming me like a woman 
that has forgotten how to charm but instead proportionately chooses to “hate”—

I know of a woman much older than me who truly loved me, years ago—
old enough to be my mother—Georgiana. She loved frogs & had frog statues
on her front porch.
       One hot, muggy summer afternoon I helped her move away from the boondocks
& her dog nearly grated my leg into repulsion— Thus Spoke The Angry Dog! 
She told me that she wrote a lot of poetry but was always hesitant
to let me read any of her work. I felt that she was lying to me, but I did not 
reveal those feelings to her,
       & one day—a hot, muggy summer afternoon—she brought to me a scrap
piece of paper with a poem by her on it. “Finally!” she said, as if it were a relief.
I could discern that her poem had been written quickly, perhaps even the day before.
       Later, on a hot, muggy, summer afternoon, she said to me: 

                                                                                “If I were 
                                                                    a younger 
                                      I’d definitely be 
                                                                 chasing you!”

       Georgiana made spaghetti with sugar mixed into it—she called it her 
“New Hampshire special”—when she was younger, she was a hippie,
& she hung out with the Hell’s Angels & also rode saddle with
Mafia gangsters in New York City. 

                                                                         “One of them 
                                                              wanted me, 
                                        but I just wanted 
                                to be friends—
                                                  but he wanted me 
                                                             to be his girlfriend, 
                                                                          but I never 
                                                         took it that far.”

After she overheard one of the men discussing a plan to knock-off a fellow 
on the East Side, she knew that it was time to hit the road, 
& what a rocky, turbulent road it would become. . . . 

                                                                         “I was beaten 
                                                                  by a pulp 
                                    by all of my husbands. 
                                 I would call 
                                                   the police 
                                                           on them,
                                                                     but the police 
                                                       would tell me, 

‘Ma’am, that’s not our problem—
  that is your problem that you will 
have to deal with on your own.’”

       Release the RoboBees! I’m waiting for 
espionage to hop-along-Cassidy beside me,
make a long war with robots & watch everyone beat one another to a pulp. 
Well, this is what “they” want.

       In the Age of The Sage, my crown would still be devoured by migraine attacks—

& when L. & I were in a café one evening, the older, attractive woman
who would tilt her head down so that her eyes looked up at me sensually,
said to us: 

                                                                         “Oh, you guys 
                                                    are such intellectuals.

       L. said: 

                                                                         “I dont know if it’s 
                                                          or if we just have 
                                                     too much time 
                                                                    on our hands.”