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
dream___
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___
