___________________________________________

I could light a candle from this lightning,
put out the darkness with a prerequisite.

Few fingers like fishes; this isn't India--
crime-rates, angry nets in oceans,
tender glop rises from the present protesting seas,
gulps swallowed in the circus act of politics.

Who is the boss's boss's boss's boss's boss?

A piece of news that shakes the global milieu,
supervened, bruises thoughts,
mass consciousness like an old jalopy.

Our fortune is bare & before sunrise
a thirsty, hunger-ridden congregation gathers
near Egnatia Hwy in Greece to watch a frog exodus.

"Scientists are perplexed at the bizarre phenomenon."

Rivers run as dry as a dragon's throat
or a magnetized fiancee. Let's change directions.

Should a machine give a resounding goodbye?
Should Jupiter apologize for losing a ring?
like a marriage that flames to an end
that always had a flaccid grip,
like waving to someone that is on horseback
and they wave back with both hands,
then go crashing down like a thundering fib.

Taxed of irresolutions, language borrowing
images from media, planted into the brain
like a fruitless fashion, reflections to disengage
the legs. America, standing in her own alien waters.

The frangible Statue of Liberty becomes a slot machine--
hollowness now embedded with thick boughs of tokens.

___________________________________________

If I could
walk on water,
I would

walk atop
the red carpet
in the Gulf of Mexico.

Buttered haven,
sting-y patterns
in the news

like a lashing
staphylococcus.
I whispered

a "Chinese whisper"
& it was
like a repeat

of nineteen twenty-nine
...the Great Depression.
The eyelids

of America
are swollen--
words limit

the enquiry.
Perhaps I'm on
the right track now.

Days ago,
I thought
of places to visit.

Those double
brushstrokes
are beyond me now.

I commute
to music,
having lived

without noticing
the edge,
never seen,

torn from
obvious severity.
I had an

unerring grasp
of the
unfunctional muscle

that drifted away
like a lazy day,
precipitately cloudy,

as if
I had
obtained

my mother's
hidden
nostalgia

for our
native land.
My goal now

is to
peacefully attack
that part of

the human mind.
The talk of
ushering in

a general
confusion,
like a

ploughed field,
are pajama'd
pejoratives

of splendid comfort,
ablazed in
feudal time

with
little touches
of levitation.

___________________________________________

Language; its butterflies
swiftly gliding like a boxkite.

Words should make us spark
until we bloom into
levitating stars
that meet
the falling stars
before they make themselves

visual.

OF A FLICKERING

Cut a circle out of a shadow.
This is what you did. I must have
imperfected our eclipse when
I reached out to snip it with
dull scissors. I'm all a-drum.
One cannot solve the stalemate now.
I'm greenish-white transparent leaves
in the sunlight. Oh! oh! oh!
Your eyes were like force-grown
potatoes, romanticized in a
famous magazine, overwhelming
my eyes at the same time
within the core of the image.
I'm not at the breakfast table writing this,
I hope you know. I just wanted
to tickle the tip of your nose
for a moment. But I exited my lodgings,
tugging at the curtain of the wizard;
our words now mummified,
chiseled into history, the way our
treks perhaps still make the grass whisper,
the way our footprints still rise
to the surface of the sweet earth.

___________________________________________

This world, as it carries weight
past each large house, each smaller one,
strides to poke new holes through
our centers; with each pin-point
as stiffly, faltering--we see directly into
the density as our shadows pass across
the beautiful earth.

___________________________________________

Capable of moving the room out of place:
portrait of the deconstructionist in salmon-colored light,
who, in the archive, is persistent. Where is
Peter the Roman? What root, what tree, what breath
shall be transformed into the paper that becomes
the Peace Treaty for mid-east turmoil?
May 20 2010: "Iran says they can destroy Israel in week"
& so as it is, another: "Euro in danger: Germans trigger
panic over future of single currency"--
'coincidences' rake through media. The night has come,
but who is ever sleeping? Madmatter, mutter of mothers,
daughters blaze like blizzards, fathers figure into their sons'
vortexes, allowing them to disappear like cosmic matter,
like a body without organs. Control
from the unfolding is this theme; the egg
hatches, out comes the "king of the south"--
Joe Brandt, in '37, a vision of chaos:
the president would have big ears. Was his mouth
also like a flaming sword? Dear globalization, could you speed up?
I have a path to take. This is like a film
that cannot move fast enough, where the cinematographer
must have been sleeping-at-the-camera.
This patchwork needs no shadows,
like post glacial rebound. This language is all too familiar;
let's smear it out, like consciously constructed photo-sets.

___________________________________________

A Comedy.
Involving two lips.
Interpretation

for oriental
native minds.
Even though

you never
appear,
never write,

the substrata
beneath my
expectation

hollows out,
& here,
I aim for hope,

but remain
in the field
of some

Irish epic
where I sit
& watch cattle

being driven out
for slaughter.
Sad, yes,

but suitable,
consequently
focusing on logic,

somewhat lesser
than a
grand narrative.

Parallelism
to summarize
Realism

is dissected
by a vast
encyclopedia;

a Most Wanted
collection
of words

with shark teeth,
wide open,
gaping with emotion,

where my heart
appears through
another door,

where another heart
turns to leave through
my own lively valves

but I stop before
the holographic
bandaids of

The Past, Present
& Future
become altogether

aware of
Themselves,
the way that

we disconnect
from reality
when we sleep,

when we slip
into Reality,
when we become

everything at once.
This is no Comedy.
No. This

is the womb
of defect,
a Drama

for an earthquake,
or as hollow
as 21st century

refridgerators.
Listen. My lips
will not move

unless you
become
a chiselled-out statue.

I hope no one
will interpret
my speech

when you careen
out of control
to stop my

wristwatch
from operating.
Beating inner-electric

thyroid, you are
a fairytale & you
are breaking

the mold.
Your lips,
with a

talkative truth,
speak swordly,
I cannot believe this!

But I do.
With limited lips,
the mind

is drenched.
Heart of holly
-hocks. Grand

-fatherly types,
not clocks, beat
like drums.

I am a
lifelong resident
of indecisive

action, as if
I am securely
trapped inside of

a chambre à
quatre portes;
perfected missteps

involving confetti
& animation.
On the contrary,

this is funk stew,
all of it.
What else

shall occupy
my time
this late in the day

when I am
craving love,
aching for

a moment of risk,
of gamble,
to express

what lips
cannot hold,
transparent

remnants of
assuming
a Longing.

This, perhaps,
a film yet to be
viewed,

a language within
a language,
where the piper

plays a cold tune,
where I
will look for

odd characteristics
& quirks.
I will

find them myself
& the muscles
in my neck

will soften
as the baritone
grows louder,

as the orchestra's
grinding wheel
growls

as tough as
Malcom X's "Y",
encourages

the incidental
echoes of
my flaming hot

pepper-mouth
to burst through
our polarities.

I aim for
a destination.
Where are you

& why are you
not listening to me?
I apologize, I do,

like Plato
to Socrates.
I am your

Mister Potato Man
Poet Laureate,
hotter than

Buenos Aires air.
In another
geographical timeline,

maybe we were
Egyptian & we
ruled the night,

didn't we?
as if we were
comic book characters,

as if we
collected garlic
& lemon

& placed them
in takeout containers.
We sat

in our lavish deserts
watching the camels
graze by.

This was
our Baywatch.
Within the

palinodic garden walls,
we spoke
of childish things

but maintained
their level
of romance

the way a
Victorian hangman
tells his love

the sweetest
goodbyes;
sensitive to the subtle.

___________________________________________

To transmute every thought
with the potentiality of the
human embryo, as if corresponding

in another realm that knows
no confrontation, that diminishes risk
& turns off every tongue

to accomplish new ways of sight,
where shadows violate only themselves,
where we are subconsciously

influenced by the Invaluable,
is the pictorial infusion that is
synchronistically bound with

the absence of the forms of connection
that the cunning eye accepts
with deaf ears.

INHUMAN

i.

On days when I am not human,
my hypothetical portfolio
of optimistic control is buried
in La plaça del Diamant,
but my words become
strategic maneuverings
of language which is itself nothing
but largely united recurring dreams
which has perhaps entered
into my bloodstream
travelling like a finite game
at lightspeeds; pure phosphor dots,
one extravagant cycle
that repeats itself as if
in a moment of liberation.

ii.

On days when you are not human,
haystacks & distant woodlands
burn like bullfighting.

iii.

Elsewhere,
my spring has unfurled,
has been long delayed
but patience is the thing
which carries us
note by note to our
flower-strewn meadows
without ever reaching
a moment of open conflict
that is all equipped
with surrealistic Urphänomen,
but where Interference Patterns
coalesce; where our unruly
childish alien-like doppelgängers
mock our humanity
with a sustained F sharp.

___________________________________________

Through the greenest burgeoning trees

a white van sits in a driveway, the silhouette

of a man's head rushes back & forth like rain

that suddenly begins without a resource,

but today there is embroidered sunlight,

seems brighter, nearly infuriating, animated,--

an unbounded eruption of Damascus.

I could be a volcanologist when I boot up

my computer, or like when G.A. cupped

my head in her hands, pausing at first,

then forcing herself to continue.

April rain, shifted, shaved my face as if to

trace my flesh as if taboo could fit inside

a handbag. My body was created for

holding tightly. This was years ago before

the U.S. sported a dictator; this was before

Seance Specialists were writing speeches

to faux intellectuals for the pleasure of

ringing alarm-bells. A terrorist bites into

a candy-cane, everyone bites their tongues,

their nails. Polydimensionally. I am asking

myself if I could duplicate personal expression

by staining underwear for Art's sake.

Somewhere in a hotel two lovers are sitting

so close together in the lobby that their thighs

are overlapping. I think of this because

an episode of fantastical & realistic memory

is born like a buffalo race that is held in Florence.

The balsamic vinegar of my mind is boiling

like a valedictorian's ego. I dislike negative people.

They are like anthropomorphisms; their mouths

like woodsnakes, their words with deficiencies,

spindles of round-end shingles that look to

twist out spinal-cords. Satire has arrived.

I go to sleep like a Renaissance painting,

the character behind the oils. I miss being

loved. I open my heart like a proverb

& grip the safety gear on the rails

of Answer's undressing.

WHEN I HOLD A CAMERA

i.

Sometimes when I hold a camera
I feel nearly transfixed as if with a spear
turned towards my own everblooming

ii.

Sometimes when I hold a camera
I feel like I am diving into a forgotten sense
of every property of human existence

iii.

Sometimes when I hold a camera
I feel as though I am unbandaging it
from its speechlessness with careful unison

PEEPHOLE

There is a problem with closed quotes tonight
because it feels unethical, fatty & too refined,
like ruby slippers on the wrong feet. I drank the
coffee far too late, it is a shifty deluge upon my
head. "Eat the Whole Beast"---My star is on a
trek, my star has left the vicinity, flipping through
filipinia. How do you feel? She is never happy
unless the thread is thinner than the needle.
Today in the sunlight I felt like John Locke
or either Lewis or Clark or Lewis and Clark,
and in heaven, there is no weight above that
space to fall upon the shoulders---moldy spots
will not be digested, there are no anniversary
celebrations, no greeting cards, no shadows.
I received a bearhug from God & a simulated
assessment task for the entire area of my body.
We are all as small as Insectivora or fat-tailed
mice lemurs. I am child-like, an altruist for the
Great Divine! I attempted cartwheels as a child
but could never muster out an Emerald City
of bedazzlement, but 1-2-3 Redlight! was like
a field drama that always escalated. I attempt
at clearness in my explanation, but it comes out
as background noise, or an adolescent's
schoolyard taunt, yet I have not had the
opportunity to speak as if I were some modern,
funky christening spoon dipped into my heart's
fuming rainbow. I have blurred out every apparition.
My head is a strange balloon's nasal pitch
when popped and let loose. We all want a peephole,
a little extra time, money. We all want a peephole.

___________________________________________

The poem I aim to write never comes to me
but now it will. I have confessed it,
perhaps not as I should,
but as I am able. I sneeze out poems
for Spring's popping color-spread.
This familiar pollen: placid catalogues
of reproduction, regenerative
seasonal coordinates, reminded
of a love that once left me upon
a dusty path in secession, whirlpools
of solitude, thick foggy yellow
in this abbreviated air, my lungs stuffed
like Thanksgiving turkeys, dark yellow
as seasons rotate like cyclic endometrial lining,
turns me into an Asian man.
Why Spring? I could have written
of summer, should write about the future,
not of the now, a Huxley-like protuberance
rising from my fingers, but furtive
and docile. Love, a season of itself,
within itself. I handed her an island
of particular earth, we scented out the voids
of birds and let their harmonies echo
into us until we became crisp sheets of sky,
and above all voices, the song, the whales
we became in our childishly-sly oceanic waves.
Our light, definitive whiteout. Even now
I part it, bending it back; the key to anything
is everything, and everything consumes
a substitute. My poignance is pinpointed
by perhaps what I say, or do not say.
I sneeze. Someone scoop my eyes from
this window. I surf through memory each day
as if opening a penance. I have outsmarted
the ability to flee. I hear a train in the distance.
It arouses my attention. Every day, there is
an odd kind of emotion that sneaks up on me,
like holding out a promise to a machine
by informing it that it will never become an
isolated agent. These forces have recurring
limps; the involuntary muscle-contractions
of thought, of time, of memory, of love lost,
will always be like geysers of the soul
when one has already accepted them as
regulatory.

___________________________________________

Place a crewcut deep into these shadows.
Insert a noise into a noise's lightweight ancestor.
Every day I pull strands of hair from my back
& check to see if my balding head looks the same.
Look at the birds; how romantic they are!
There is an object on the wall that I cannot
make out, looks as if something is pushing through
from the inside. This is like temptation, how it pushes
pulls stretches itself into a dough-like masquerade;
the way flesh thins as it ages but never stops yearning
& aching, like observing how the prettiest women
are non-religious & how in our country the grasslands
seem to have claws & the hallways of our buildings
are filled with familiar spirits that pass through
us, passing through, passing by, as if on the tips
of our tongues. Imagine a day without shadows,
a night that goes on a “Brain-caking hiatus,”
think of a mirror that invests, as if it were some
ruthless pythoness, or think of a lively air that
tangles around lungs, the unflinching of finches,
a reflection that deletes us from its infinite platform.

___________________________________________

Poetry
is behind
still inward
Everything
seen & unseen,--
What is seen,
Hides organ-inners,
behind unpointed
revelances
of these facts.
There is There.
There the air
breathes thinly.
Night comes.
Ear to wonder.
Open it.
Opened up
By it. Pretending
to be voiceless.

NOT EVEN A SECOND

Not even a second, she said,
I hear her sounds
like an anchor
rattling the ground,
laudable desire for force.
If we weren't human, we would be
Human.
The cinema-of-terminal-decline
puts us squarely
in the mind
of [edit] drowsy repetition [edit]
or heavenly lobotomies,
aye, let me eat your thoughts
like a Greek-E
-nglish dictionary. And like Stein:
“You will find that all this is true
when I get through.”
What an ending to denial, I thought,
staticky stasis of throwing a fit
in lieu of emptying
bucketful after bucketful of leaking
water-heater water, quick as quick
-silver.
I sliver out of the door
like a thunderclap, the words
ongoingly-savage,
essential to not being able to
remember the cup of
chocolate truffle coffee
that I had late tonight.
Some days, you can call me
The Absent Man.
Hear ye!
“Hallelujah” is used to score
moments of unstandard validity,
big squalls for being happy.
Every day, I feel alive
to-the-inner-teeth, soft as
cherry blossom trees in a
blurred photograph,
or intermingled within a
Brice Marden painting.
What of this indecipherable sensation,
as puzzling as the language of the
ancient Cretans.
What of these oral-formulaic
unprepared scribbles
that I jot, or jet, down
to feel knotted, my jawstructure
like a nutcracker
after writing with my mouth
opened, Time lecturing me
with unforgettable detail.

___________________________________________

Amidst the polluted swoon, where on earth is earth?
To be seen without living inside of a body. By stare
alone: a nun chants a confession. I watch her walk away.
Not even a shadow follows in unison, like a cave's half-mystery.
Web of acquaintances, a placement of dominoes; thin disguises
without risks ransacking every part of you. Did Picasso
create peacocks? Is that an 'ex' or Roman numeral ten?
The seasons are consistently disassembling themselves.
My throat is like a vocabulary airport: words going to and fro.

LIGHTER DUSKS

We're focused on old-fashioned emotion
a goop stitched into time

A photograph with a second chance

Everything is a winded larvae
breathing the way an audience never lasts

Imagine light where light ages
where it loses its function

Mousetrap-like shadow that is interfaced
as Default

Imagine it depriving you
of walking down a street during midday
walking your pet
walking yourself into a sweat

Do streetlights spy

Do streetlights inhale deeply the way that I do
when I make a mistake

Today's world is a tiny drop
you turn to give it a taste
but before it touches the edge of your mouth
it freezes

Carnifex of a fully tooled “apeiron”

A faceless guest

Ancient philosophy like Anaximander
still carving a "situation" into modern mud
with accurate details

Detail is a detached commentator on a television
engaged in nonsensical sentences
that are sensical to those that
balance between the credits

Let's construct a new speech

If only our tongues could be ripped out
to grow back again
to have an entirely different infrastructure
for speaking
for sound
a lizard's tail that needs no burial

Every second in time gives birth to memory

The eye: inward holograms

The "eye": paper

The wound must often be wiped

Suttering or stammering

Our hands are beginner's hands
laborious & voluminous

Everything that I do is modest

Soon we'll be beekeepers
the nest will cave inward in a hypnotic diction
like the mesmerizing eyes
of a young Berber woman

With a craned neck
forward & absolute

She threatens him with a particular music
but I feel it must be her voice from beyond
that shifts his drummin(g)ears

like sitting next to a campfire
& wondering which direction
the rabid animal may attack you from

___________________________________________

To get a tongue
-implant to
talk slicker

than Dick Cavett,
a multiple "I": I
will be back soon

to bug you.
This
is not

a love poem,
it is a love scrotum.
My dreams

should receive
Oscars & Grammys,
& many people

would perhaps
echo the same
for Joe Brandt's

1937 vision
of an earthquake
demolishing

Los Angeles
"in the future"
(but before,

complete silence;
not a bird in sight).
While the world

is anxious & worried,
answering with
iPhone-dialogue,

full of vigor
& sneering
flawlessness,

I cut through
emerald grasses,
rush through

traffic with
"heavy feet,"
skim through

rural gardens,
remove stems
from seeds of

fruit, sip tea in
multi-colored
orchards, as if

it were all
fundamental
warm-up drills.

Late last night
while driving
on the long

dark highway,
poems
were being read

on the radio.
Someone read
a poem

by William Blake
& were straining
their voice.

I will check later
for cracks
in the windshield.

I felt like
becoming
a behaviorist.

There is no limit
to indefinite
detention,

like attempting
to reduce the size
of a mouthpiece

so that it fits
the shape
of someone else's.

Only fools
never expect
legends to die,

& when it
inevitably occurs,
it is like

blacking out
a blinker.
How soon

I forget
that I
am not non

-reversible,
like the throb
of an engine.

From the prequel:
be careful
on that bridge

that wobbles
underneath your feet.
There are ducks

flying above
a car
in the distance,

or are those
vultures? No,
too small.

Perspective
can often
provide one with

half-truths
& unsupported
assertions

that follow you
like a bright shadow,
to be used

through nonlinear
interactions.
While you are

into all that ugly
fashion, why not
get some frizzy hair

overlaid with a haze
of anonymous
lightning of linking,

like some inward
camera-obscura.
Voices click here.

I will cut
a window
into an old one,

riffage of light
like sumptuous melodies,
a kind of

Zip-a-Dee-Doo-Dah
animation,
like how

a child's brain
is futuristic-filled,
like how

I would read
Popular Science
magazines

while sitting on
the toilet as a child
when visiting

my Grandparents
during the holidays
on Lake Oconee.

It was all about
the spaceship
-looking vehicles.

I remember
how my Grandmother
reacted

when I asked her
if I could have
the newspaper

that showcased
a day-old deceased
Kurt Cobain.

What really put it
over the moon
was how she

handed it to me
after momentary
lapses of contemplation.

Found written in a journal of mine:

Somewhere in the world, January 2010:

"Roadside killing,
bodies thrown"

"Two, passport
problems not solved"

"attackers had
heart attacks, death"

"Generator remained
stuck in the shawl"

"Kidnapping was
seeing kidnapping"

"Father killed
in front of son,
the sun"

"95 thousand
from Airtel showroom
looted"

"Womens' bodies
disappeared
from the blood!
Five arrested
in the hunt"

The outside world
is nothing
more than

an enormous
website. I hear
thunder.

Or is that
someone
knocking

on the door?
There is
a forced absence

in this area.
When a book
is closed

shut, the image
is unseen.
There is

nowhere
to flee,
like childbirth.

INNER EXOSKELETON

What has reinspired all of the original horror
like some tired, poor Statue of Liberty
cupped underneath the earth's garments

earth's grinning concrete, monuments of
former Presidents, their spinning effective speech
now as ineffective as cuneiform tablets

TRYING TO GET THROUGH! to everyone
is like eyeing a wide horizon, perhaps like
being clear-spoken in spite of oneself

like disobeying the radio's mouthy heritage
Who is the masked man between & behind
teacher & pupil that dims wages beyond salvaging

Spatial tiny nucleuses unfolded into
one's mirror-glass facades, rapid expressions
Tonight the roads are as frozen as the frozen

compositions of the smiles on the faces
of every woman during an Elvis concert
If you died in her arms that night

then you must now be a ghost singing about it
Snow came, snow turned to rain, then dried
So here it is, we protrude an inch from our orbits

What blessings our bones are to not be glass
like a memory worsening during conversation
Knock knock I'm There

Every day I shout with a treble-soft voice
against the opened ceiling as if to
synthesize contemplation where I feed my stimulus

even though my argyle socks may stink
to the very core/pore/bone & may droop
ones eyes low, lower like Baudelaire's forehead

in his later years, but at least there is
a radiance in my shouting voice
Silence provides everything with an

extended strangeness like O'Shaughnessy
who said that vision & touch are what instruct us
or perhaps it is plenty more at a self-distance

like the alien-like gaze of a bird that looked
into my camera lens this evening that made me
feel part-object as I reached out hesistantly to touch it

DAILY GRADUAL

I prepare for a collage the same way that

I prepare for a day: searching for the

impossible conception, the way a husband

may tell his wife to cut off the fat.

She responds Stoically & abrubt:

"Perhaps if I cut off your testicles . . . "

—silence always occurs at this stage;

silence of the human slug. So to speak?

My collages are the gastronomy

of Genoa. I rip out the warm elegance

of a master bedroom, paste it to the

railroads that may go through the Pacific—

a future slum of glue; a dab here, a dab

there (I grin concentratedly like a child,

feeling daring, less impressed by

my helplessness) filtering through

the alternations between engaging tempos

of ephemera & breaking them free

from their hidden epithelium, neighborly

hecatontomes. I pause to consider.

I unpause to reconsider, the way that

New York City is never phased unless

terror strikes, & even by then the media

plays pantomime, plays out, files away.

In art, disregarding rules is like NWA

disregarding police, except without all of

the symbiotic rage. Chunky protein collage:

essence of Klimt, sloppy Joe, faint cracks

in the absolutes of a scholar's pale face;

holes in his eyes replaced with replicas

of vantage points. The world around him

falls in the night; hard-bitten, an abyss

of colorful strips of folded jar-flung regions.

What is this collage, these collages, but

fractured bits of composition within the sum

of cranking parts? I stare near-sightedly over

the results, put a close to the downrush

of wild energy, can hear the closed-off

howls of a new creation as I walk away

seeking dinner, the way youth vanishes.

bARb

Techno-Impressionism or 17th-century motets—
where O where is
Barbra, O Châteaux,
Streisand?
Barbra
Streisand
is all over the place, even though she is no where.
While other actors & actresses are kicking out the
jams, I am wondering why others are not embracing
anarchy in this great mysterious
Streisand
cutting-edge ponderment. Imagine seeing
Barbra's
youthful face while one day eating a peanut butter
& jelly sandwich. Neil Diamonds in the gut.

(My father once said that
he would only prepare
one sandwich for me in my
entire lifetime & that afterwards
I must prepare my own.
Everytime that I prepare
my own sandwich, I think of him
while thinking of how
my grandfather, to this day,
still asks me if I would like a sandwich—
he leaves it sitting in the refridgerator
for me, wrapped in a newly-fresh
plastic sandwich bag.)

Imagine time-lapse imagery of a middle-aged
B.S.
while she writes saucy letters to you & later
gives you a stunning topaz to swoon upon.
Imagine seeing
Barbra Streisand's
face on your neighbor's flower pot or perhaps
her face in your window at night, & then lightning
flashes in the background creating a halo around
her head, in which she "mouths" the following words:

"Hunger is a monster,
disregarding every law, it can make
a cannibal out of the flower
of our highest civilization,
& neither Jay nor Crow
nor human creature is to be
punished for what they are driven to
by starvation."*

Somehow you are able to decipher
what she has said. You had been
starving, had been reading a book
about birds, had been thinking about
how uncertainties are more raw
than a wind-worn ground-growth
or pinkish-winded mouth, as dry
as stale biscuits.

____________________________________________________________________

* from What Birds Have Done With Me by Victor Kutchin.

The clouds are living, like the onward

Rush of all things. I pay attention.
The only stars this night
Are street lamps. I am here
(perhaps with you) exploring Idea,
Exploring & finding the chord-y chorus
Of Language (it is mounted for
The sole purpose of being disembodied
With no obstacles & no conceptions)
As if all words were lying back-up
In a field, like the death of Robert Walser
Whose familiar Spirit creates
Snow angels in that same gaping spot.

___________________________________________

After Alexander conquered Egypt,
he probably wondered through
the green hills of Perthshire
& thought of Americana
& "the blonde ambition"
that would soon come.
Ladies, if your
doctor gives
you
anxiety, sing,
"Die, Die, Die, My
Darling!" into his ears
while he "checks" your
heartbeat, as if with the
hands of an unmarried man;
a holy chalice under the tongue,
juice of black red cherry. I have
been inviting more howls to
rescue the air, the air you
spoke of, the air that
gave me majestic
goosebumps.
This winter,
I had not
known
what was
to come, again:
tenseness of skin,
of heart, I have become
an out-of-focus snowman in
liquid form. What does the plant
adore? Corpuscle adornments.
My rheumy previsualizing.
I am not confrontational.
I feel like the end of
a rainbow;
treasure
is flat, like
water without
waves or droplets
anywhere in sight, like
the way dawn can diminish
a candle's glow. I told Tatiana
that certain doorknobs are doped
with whispers & blended
visual gestures. Forget
the shattered past.
It is said
that
"The Golden
Age" wasn't particularly
gleaming with gold. It would be
like a Renaissance Period without all
of the regrouping. Open the night,
celebrate its closing by awaiting
its opening again. Black &
white is like a distillation
(click to enlarge them).
Plot holes in this poem,
or pot holes in this
poem. My soul
-chops are like
God
-dard.
“soul is total
vocal freedom.”
Perhaps like the animated
dancing woman in silhouette underneath
the Make Less Than $45,000/year?
advertisement. We should all
beware of safety. O Canada,
come feast upon America's
vulnerabilities!
Downward
sweep
of an axe.
Of a Moment's ass
-ociation. "some of my confusion
was just unfamiliarity" like a stuffed bird
in kingdom come. No voice is raised
against the deaf. Embrace the
complimenting monsieur
that is at odds. I speak
óbecause Because
without a
surround
-ing
we
would all
become ticklish
wenches a-laughing
in a certain place, perhaps
in the gaps of Saint-Chély-du-Tarn
& speech would always
give-way to correction
like a king correcting
a joker. I am a joke
-r. I would have
slugged
the king,
would have
been like a dreadful
child that knows what is
coming: possible intense scornings.
Months fly by in a blur. The calender
goes blind, nearly honourably, heels over
head, like a brute beast; like quick
-sand, becomes groundless
& prejudice of the sacred
abstraction of
each
day.

________________________________________________________

Instant silence in every instance.
—or so I'd thought.
Chopin's piano is a phrase in my vocabulary.
—or so I'd want.

Be far. Be a far booming noise
unlike anything else. Be the far
fair individual. Go ahead,
contact your voice.
Remember color, remember personality
—& as is, as was.

Of, of, alike, resemblance of
the animal. We begin as a flock.
The boy who cried wolf
was really a wolf himself.
—& up up up his echo carried.

Instant silence in every instance.
Yes. The way I had dropped
at your feet in the cold grass.
The way you cupped my head in your arms
& caressed me untitledly.
—or so I'd thought.