___________________________________________

Radical Islam—as if

"3-dimensional represenations of a 4-dimensional thing"

                     could re-transform           

              with diction of vengeance

the materials

                    of a hologram

                                         in the city of bloody lips

Legible sensories malfunction

     a single fleck     plume of perfume     breathy bows

of a blooming unalterable impartiality

        WHY AM I WEARING A HAT

        on a day like today

The ice in the water has melted

         I drink to you    

             with "trammels of precision"

like a televised war

The windows disappear

                     into the doors       bad philosophy

anatomical into spaces that are quite economical

    You make me feel Radical

If ever there was a place

                             in need of more comedy

this is the time

I will write the Afterword later

    I walked past a graveyard whistling a melody

A group of ghosts perched upon a gravestone "booed" me

Just call me Boris Karloff

                           as I walk past your residence

as loathsome as a crippled carriage    as slow as a Mummy

A bamboozled child screams for his mommy

                   dropping his   iPod   iPad   earbuds   cell phone

I wait for you to notice       Maybe you heard

the horror of the child         but suddenly

I notice that the light in your home

loses its sunshine

Mary & Percy

                            for my uncle, T.H.

Imagine Mary  
in a graveyard 
with Percy

Thin lips, full lips,
lanterns distanced
by their
Oneness of breath

Familiar spirits rise
to watch,
covering their eyes

"Must be something
in the water"

Nine months later,
Mary's water
breaks

The gravestone
cracks, crumbles
into a powdery ash

___________________________________________

As the first eye of light
          makes itself known
                          in the morning


          The coffee-maker
on the counter
                
                                celebrates

___________________________________________

The man in the dream said,

                            "Let's go find 
                               the silver of the beach."

                                        So we appeared there 
& saw fragmented banks 
          of rock-formations
                             
                         several feet underneath 
the ocean,
      vague 

                   but agreeable for discernment;

silver-linings on top of them 
                   shining like 

                                      metallic fish-scales.
 
Unwritten dreams 
               re-form

                   from different interpretations
of raw data. 

The coynage of conforming 
                             that old storye   
                                      into a meer romance. 

I write letters
                    to no one             (meaning that I do)
 
but while writing these letters, 
                 a face always appears 

on the paper (without a mouth) 
                       with voice-over commentary, saying: 

"Your eyes are like the flawless seas. 
                               May I Supersize them?" 

"Yes," I say,
             "as long you come out from behind  
the white curtain 
              & be my personal pantomime." 

The dinosaur in my dream 
              could have been my            eye-muscles 
dancing during sleep,

or if I were The Time Traveller,
               wholly mysterious, 

this triceratops would have had 
                   gaping jaws & wings. 

I want to find that beach, 
                   that shore-line of foam,

                                      like the Holy Ghost 
                             burning itself
                  into my spirit.

A great leap! to burn one's lips 
              on the joints of an image.

                                      I want to venture to this beach
                           & allow a rough draft of wind
           to dash right through me to the heart,

to calm the sores with the boldest
                  hands, quicken my blood. 

To be able to live in a dream 
                                  for a time or two

                                 as if I were the same person in doubles;
                  doubled in two, 

into "I" & "you," 

where "We" becomes 
                   a blooming first-born.

___________________________________________

Wait and cry out, until he sees her, Caesar
of the valley, white in linen, shapeless in shape

-lessness. The keyboard I touch is like dancing
on a frozen island--fingers like the Equater

reversing itself inward, the earthen-orange core
glazes like lava boiling upon the decline

of a sinking culture. The faint sky, a noirish
brake-cavity, lump of cell hovering above, rain

slides from clouds, a vibe of sprezzatura.

Tonight's fortune cookie fortune:

            "The evening promises romantic interests."

Is that criminal slang for

           "Put the other end of the rope in your mouth
           and clamp down with your teeth"?

I am picky beyond the physic, denying error,
as if there is an art without failure.

           "Who are you?" I ask to bestir my curiosities.

           "I am your mind, and you are the runway
           in which I never run; you swallow the words
           that I provide you, as if with blank Bingo cards;
           the triumph of word over flesh!"

quoteth the mental Sayven, forever[sayeth]more.

___________________________________________

To leap higher than Kadour Ziani,
not as high, however, to that

of a quickly rising fire-tornado in Brazil,
dimishing quickly into thin air.

Fire within this heart of mine,
my rib cage expanding outward, as if

long-in-the-tooth. My refractive index
is changing—though the "real me" is

already invisible—to that of air,
and my body is not absorbing nor reflecting

light any longer. What else should I
speak of that would seem fantastical

to the common man? This, as if one's diary
knows what one is writing about

on its pages, or as if labeling a hurricane
the name of a human being is not

a peculiar thing.

___________________________________________

Every day is shaken like rigor mortis

only of the eye

Shakes maniacally like the dryer

in the narrow hallway

Numb effects on me

like walking through the neighbors' backyard,

scampering,

butterflies scattering in every direction

but I'm Still

even when I'm Moving

Thick air of summer

enough to sizzle

blood-vessels

Ventilation of yellow evening sky

The faint echo of nothing

wanting to fade,

to give way to darkness

There is no void of which to speak

I marvel at the sky, Chinablue,

golden minimums forcing a

shiver, a silver hue

I've felt this beautiful stirring

before

when my eyes rained

with a full grasp of heartache

A lonely valley

is instrumental

becomes like a theatrical audience

Vast fractal memories of Ghazal

the kinship of Time sinking slowly

We sat together

as if in the next century

My heart, like a painted snowflake

in the middle of summer

I'm eager, aimless

as midnight will soon come,

kissing all of our heads softly

The clock on this white-faced wall

has a distinct heartbeat

like everything else

Outbreak of mood

To keep your eye on it

before it vanishes

The bedsheets are wrinkled here,

laminated by an intrinsic moment

All escapes me now

in this new late morning blush

as I long to split sleep into

fragments of black silk

The moon tugs

yet is growing smaller

If the days get shorter

let the night hang from us

We'll put the moon in a flower-vase

with the hope that it sprouts into a new sun

Linking a specific organic process of the mind

that resembles
trembling shadows
of branches.

Surely
I do not mean
"fair & balanced"

but I must
self-actualize
everything

that is
synonymous with
this evening's sun

with waiting
for feedback from
cats, for the feeling

of the bathroom's rug
on my soles
as if I were

a mere comic-strip
in a massive
metropolitan city limit.

I'm a boy
trapped in a man's body
with a lot of love

wrapped up
in a human package.
It's hysterical

to think of this
metaphor as cost
-effective,

like angry solopsists
clinging to life
like animals

in an abattoir.
These very words,
thoughts, pierce

my heart,
my own verbiage,
so that the

previous idea
of comedy
becomes like

fossilized DNA
spawning under
the debris

of my
recurring
Spock-like centre.

Yet
where is Insight
traveling through

the brain,
reflections of
the surface

of the sun--
everything
moving us closer

to cyborgian,
as if technology moves
in different lighting.

On the table,
black & white
photographs,

empty coffee-colored
coffee cups,
a plastic "line phone,"

a fork,
a used napkin,
a 2003 movie guide,

a black hat
& a green Sharpie
is all that I see--

this is a web
of comfortable
spheres,

a cerebrum
of the misunderstood.
But, only for me

& I,
like a wingèd horse,
could be called

Mr. Pulp
with a blue pout,
with stretched

tear-ducts,
approveth of
grubbing feedback.

I sit here,
as always,
like a beetle

in stance,
moving sonic true,
like a woman's hair

in a swarm
of grass,
the mountains

are laughing out
like a loudly-cranked
amp.

Put me in
a photograph,
put me in

-side of your
cosmos,
I'm shaking

like a word-stem,
a tent, a falling against
the harmonic gizmo.

A Mother

recently slapped her baby
on a jet
after she was kicked.
Up the text
with sleepy icecube-grammar,
tongue-twisted wide-awake--
let the babies kick
the inward stomach!
Combat troops
are exiting Iraq,
painterly-fine
& is this what we
had expected? this
overhanging hum, slum
-bering against our hearts,
sea-crushed debris, queries
for seasons ahead.
Salmonella out
-breaks are like municipals
in the mouth, clung of
discrazed world
in a smeary nightmare;
O stiffened tongues
of a nation, pestilential
discharges are mostly
ungussy. Gusty
winds today, Mexico
under siege is not worse than
Before/Now Photographs
of celebrities.

The Age of Gunpowder

is where the blood spoils, or coils, essential to avoid Waiting Times. 
ATM machines, The World Bank, in spite of their gravities, are
naked on the inside, completely ignoring the queue of the crowd.

All of our noses are bloody, like that of the woman who was ambushed,
as if for "research"--a map of lost secrets throughout the days
more than spring, hungry for too long, "a devil woman" in the scene

with a sense of impetus, in particular, the desire, particularly small colors,
the transformation of coded passwords on the skull. Men, women,
made-up by the ghosts of the same name, afraid to speak.

What is Enforcement but playing with umbrellas & raining upon
the people, slotted as friends, allowing access to the locked doors
of Subpersonalities, the ice cracking, splitting, before exiting, before

the almanac speaks for itself. Gunpowder up-the-head, clutches of
theoretical junkies that bloody the eyes of the youth. I've looked on beauty
for too long without noticing the scarecrow, the properties within,

civilization with necks in the invisible guillotines. What else is non-existent?
Blood spills like rubies down the throats of potential interpretations.
The clear air speaks with clamorous valves. Infinite possibility revised.

Adjacent Flares in a Photograph

To allow my brain to be presented

as adjacent flares in a photograph

I imagined myself

as a ventriloquist doll

speaking like an auctioneer

scanning the audience for takers

but the difficulties

of producing the image in my mind

was not like evoking reaction

but instead was the need to stay silent

allowing the surreal simultaneity

of the non-simultaneous

to be indexical similarities--

sound-&-slideshow extravaganzas,

pigments on paper--

& therefore I have determined how

to make holograms touchable.

I recommend this way of thinking

as if you want to touch the source

of the mistaken perfection

as if to speak of "what is living & what is dead"

joining up with this superimposition,

every wall in the room awakening

with a comparitive daguerreotype

when I spin in the sunlight, waiting & weaving,

interacting with isolation,

perhaps like snapping photographs of dreams--

snippets of them re-told with a lack of chronology.

4 Prose Poems

1.

When it rains, my eyes are aqueducts, or Aqueducks.  I bend a tincan lid with pliars

as if I had a plan, stepping away from the margins again as if this were white space--

to be speaking without speech, to be thinking the unthinkable, to stomp & move, to build

bone-structure as if Kazantzakis was translanting rain within the troposphere, into

what we cannot give in return; splinters underneath the die-stamp, or the cursory of you

half-around the circle of my life, like the bright lights of this city belonging to us in the

corner, Of what severed the sounds, Of what you use to extinguish my fire, blowing

the dust off of a book or the blades of a fan.  You know, don't you, that I'm the noise

of your beaten drum, inescapable, like neurotensin inhibiting the activation of midbrain

serotonergic neurons produced by loud sounds & stresses.  What is this? a sea bird

in a used bird cage, surrounded by salty air.

2.

Turn your back on them for a minute & run, earsplittingly, fragmentally-persistent

& hover from the Karoo or somewhere-air.  The Greatest Show on Earth is packed-to-

the-gills with affection.  The cotton fields have turned to concrete, symbolizing the electricity

of women's voices, frajilia, stinky romance in (is) a spaceship crashing on HAL's

dew-ridden prioperception, in the cobbed psyche' of a pelagic fish there is less-than-20%

drama in the middle of August when you sit inside amidst the A/C & wait for seasonal

ditties & carols to come roaring.  This evening, I thought of putting my finger inside of a

woodpecker's hole, but thought better of it after thinking of whaling vessels that break

international laws & treaties, felt it within the physical body, the process of pulling on

shimmering black satin.  My uncle wants me to purchase every color possible of shower

curtains to use as backdrops for photographs & I'm lost in every color's combination,

mostly at night when I walk underneath the bright boiling moonlight, like Beauty is truth,

truth-beauty—just jump out of your Bentley, let it roll swiftly down the hill, listen for the pow.

My family, I wonder about us, but we are not a pee-with-the-door-open kind of family

unless your metabolism is your icon, or if your rubbish is getting a fair amount of sleep.

Okay, well, it's good to see you.  Thank you for dropping by, and dropping a few lines

since the beginning of time.

3.

I am feeling confident & vulnerable, yet I have become separated from a kind of medium.

I have been hearing a lot of good things lately about pseudo-clever drivel & booby-traps.

She's history.  I mean, voiced opinions, whackjobs that quote Literature just to "show out"

to the greedy elite.  What foolishness, like a Laocöon, or a racoon with delusions of grandeur;

let's admire our strange & wonderful sleeping dreams.  Ingmar Bergman films intoxicated

my "influence" to such an extreme that my psychological symbolic purposes have melted

into a Fruedian-slip that dresses in a slip & slips into the most consolable vignette of when

a voiceover recites an individual mass in my brain.  Why do you want to be a phantom?

When people utter metaphorical quotes, it reminds me of horn-rimmed glasses & Oedipus.

WHOA! Blow my mind, people, like Chicken Soup for the Everythingist, or Grammar Girls'

quick tips about sagging breasts that do not sag when you walk through a cold graveyard.

I am feeling vulnerable & confident, the medium is large & my tongue, before speaking,

has emoticons dancing off of the edge.  This has supreme significance like a suspense

thriller with ambiguity & complexity, romp with glee.  My confidence is soaring to new

heights, thanks to gasoline prices & picking daisies & driving with them in silver-noir

atmospheres.

4.

I do not have a chisled jaw, nor a perfect nose, but I have the interior of a stone balloon.

That pain that you may feel in your fist as it travels up your arm is like a swimmer's wet-suit

ensemble.  Climate is an untouchable tendril, but our solar system is burning like incense.

A Noosphere is incomplete, like cocoa powder extracted & pressed into poofy black ice, or

carbuncles, or irises, opals, or Bristol stones, hard wax & rosin, & this is when Cary Grant

enters the picture with arsenic; the camera-lens is the Glass of Antimony, amethyst of

tralucency.  I miss the trembling sweetness of your voice, no longer a rarity, ear of agile

retirement.  I saw a recent photograph of you, holding a cat while making a strange face

at it, & I thought of The Song of Solomon, the way everything disintegrates, turns to ash,

like the opinions of the world.  I hold in my possession a giant wealth of secrets kept abreast,

sulphur of suspenseful instrumentation.  I would demonstrate their shapes, but it would be

like watching the dissection of a frog.  I am homespun like agitated air molecules, & you

were like the wolf having the advantage of first eyeing a man, before he becomes hoarse

& silent at seeing the wolf first.  There floats an atmosphere of infinite suggestion. I feel

a special kinship with the codework of our past language.  Criterion Collection-worthy visuals

with slightly affected sophisticated soundtracks, but only at the conclusion of our time,

only when you became the innovator of cranking up your own jack-in-the-box that erected

out & punched me square in the chin, while saying, "winner, winner, chicken dinner!"

___________________________________________

It is the end of this Age, because the server is nasty.
Distortion is distorted by thoughts to express how
the world is about to change for Floral, like Floral, like kisses

behind a ten-thousand-foot storm that immerses you.
America is now China 2.0. Low-carbon age is a faux.
China's mobile president is a grandpa; this, like classic

dialogue toilets. I feel super, ah, with speech segmentation
as if a woman is veiled by a bold, charming pity of a man,
arousing tolerance to the gesture of glory. What is really

a woman's mood? Artistic conceptions, states virtue,
I don't know, but I like the distinctive charm, that general
broad sea, enough for the imagination. It must be the end

when life on the vagaries is unreal, comes to dominate
the relaxing life of marriage, but a pulse that beats with
general intoxication & refreshing springs of nostalgia.

One must feel facial expression, movement of the heart,
giving a broader audience with more imagination.
All of these bones inside of me. The extra Read-Me signs

in the heartache-utopia of the night that I gave to you.
I cherished the treasures of you, your heart changing
seasons, computed by deviations, the way a bull reacts

not to disappear, & if we look back, what melody has
laid foundations of memory, as if with an alternative location,
ages like a knife, ruthless as if tears could mail our stories

to every refracted mis-communication, every city light,
& the lights of the city are jumping from the top of the turnbuckle.
I suppose I get thunderbolts where I ask for them. Me”–to–“I

ask for a picture of us under the intergrowth” deeper than
steep, cold Ontario, a chasm reading us, the light's fire
assuming attention, like a traveler without communication.

You resembled a quetzal, color of–seeing through you.
I could not map our HAX-speed like a ligament of poems,
but we sweated each summer day after the harsh winter

where we were holographic, & then your "ppsshh" landed
on my eyes, as if calling me an animal—days when I think
I should swallow my voicebox. You spoke negatively of

Ronald Reagan & you said that I was foolish.
Perhaps you were right. Perhaps I should copyright
your quotes, pass the torch to a communist news network

& start singing slightly off-key. You still love me, don't you?
I can feel it like the razor-edge of heat-sweltering days,
& I can hear your love loud & clear like the unmistakable

sound of cicadas in a tree. One fact about me:
the way Seuss constructed a fantasy world is not the way
I live in this world; instead it's like a large garden wagon

full of toddlers pulled by a tractor. A voice calls from inside,
like a pollen basket. You were my nucleus & that was
my downfall, like a bumblebee without the chorus of dawn.

___________________________________________

8.07.10

Fidel Castro, without a cigar-in-mouth,

just made his first official government

appearance in four years, & I think,

Is this an unusual diss? Meanwhile

I'm thinking of new poems, new ideas

like Polafreuds. Retain the retina's fondle,

fiddle fiddling on the radio, light blinds

the devil as he went down to Georgia,

but he plays a serious role in job figures

being a part of the grim economic picture.

I see featured faces: "Barefoot & Pregnant."

Retin A for Retina. There is a mean-looking

little baby in an ad staring through my monitor

as if to say, "I can't believe you don't have life

insurance." This world, full of mystery,

gas-shush-ness, plaque pineapples & squirmy

Icelandic shelter-like off-loading archaic glasses

for iced days makes me feel legally stylistic

yet weathered. Physical populations on faces

here in this town. Illusions do not have to be

illusions if you do not want them to be,

so here I am, beyond all doubt, hoping to sing

but not hoping to be heard. In a cafe at night,

shadows flip & flop, like foretelling the arrival

of strangers, incomprehensible amidst the noir.

________________________________________________________

Heat-engaged summer, like the claustrophobic tenor

within a prison. This is hyperforeignism.

Radiant beings are not always intelligent beings

perched with grandeur like an Alaskan Malamute.

I'm a professional of unprofessionalism. My eyes

tap windowpanes as if with an aikido point-of-view

like 'ñ' in the guise, or a wrong impression.

Friday, again, I'm a cartoon that's darkening

as soon as the child's eyes close completely shut.

Tender melancholy, I spit out shells of sunflower seeds.

If my maleness were on display, it would be

a revolving-door animation, a symbol, the way

a magician snickers before the curtain rises, the way

wind "picks up" making waves ripple. Futuristic Mona Lisa.

Memory, you beast with beats, I remember meeting

G. for the first time--we walked around a town square,

she picked up a dead bluebird & held it in her soft palms,

spreading its wings as my heart effortlessly sighed.

Daily Progression

Daily progression turns to flies in a jar startled by noises.
I think of cutting my hair again but there are too many
intermissions & mental subterraneous eruptions of interruptions.

The other night I dreamt that I had a head full of hair.
I smiled in the mirror caressing my long fern-like locks;
a velocipede into inter-specifics. I felt volatile yet sastified.

Shouldn't Woody Allen be bald by now? I observe dusty particles
in the sunlight like a wide-eyed pony staring at a single rawhide loop.
Sure, I wanted to leap overboard like a paranoid squadron

onto a boggy underground at the chance to fructify my stance
to be a harmless poison in the nuclear fallout root-system of your love.
A formulaic horror opus is every relationship. A deep ant-hill.

I should cut my hair again but scissors & electric razors
are the enemies to a hive of flourishing or unflourishing hair.
My head will soon be as oddly silvery-transparent as moonworts.

What few ears have escaped no place whereby to contract
a reason to enquire the groaning bite of Listening?
Old men & their hairy ears, lavender glaze in The Hearing.

Hoist colors to my eye-ladder, germinate these dreaming pupils!
I move like a sideling to see refractions & go swiftly backward
like a lobster to the glow-worming youth, perhaps when hair

flowed over my forehead. Organs playing within my organs.
No music can cure nostalgia. Instead, the tunes only confirm
the harmonies of memory content to rest in secrecy.

___________________________________________

The poet's veins gives directions to the town--
our muse is alive, the sun is as alive as a
thriving hive this summer; a grip that never loosens.

Beach balls are kicked until they explode,
soon to write on a napkin through the voice of the
Prince of Wales. "A meditation on deep feelings."

Oil on the whales, earthly vomit, mopping sweat
off of my forehead. I took a deep breath
& inhaled a cluster of stars.

If nothing else, we'll encompass every theatrical drama,
flavorful recreations of mystery, like a wedding
that is interrupted by murder.

Never hush, hush, sweet crooning girl, your voice
could reap profits--copy & paste if you agree.
Benefits reaped, like ideas that are turned upside-down.

I'm careful to be seen, like Hyde;
emotional & overwrought like some Ennio Morricone score.
I twist in this chair, the night remains muggy,

mugged-heat simmers like a POW camp.
I never settle like a sea-bird. The air of our era
is as squalid as impure wool. I ruffle the wings of summer.

The silence is broken by whooping & yelling
that I hear coming from the backyard. Again, the neighbors
& their backyard barbeque Broadway plays.

___________________________________________

I'm thinking of bright red tomatoes
as large as boxing gloves. It's how

certain foods hit you in the face, c

louding your mind, but I don't even
like tomatoes. There's a film titled
Oranges Are Not The Only Fruit.

I wonder what it is about, but hav

e no plans to watch it unless the o

pportunity sparks, of course. Why

do tomboys stop being tomboys w

hen their breasts fit into large cup

s? This is not a joker's scripted pa

lette. Liam said that he loves pine

trees. We are both from small tow

ns. He loves the way certain fore

sts in small towns appear mysteri

ous & ominous. We are both from

small towns where bright red tom

atoes are likely grown, where fath

ers raise their sons to think that th

ey should be boxers, where "home
cooking" has more meanings than

food. I should be sleeping tight, bu

t I feel over-anxious, thinking of m

etaphors that would fit into poems

that I may or may not write, or fil

ms that I would love to create wit

h surreal production sets, & who r

eally cares when one scratches on

eself? It always seems to be a pul
p topic. If my father or mother ha

d of been artists, I would have like
ly wound my watches too tightly &

dedicated all of my time to seekin

g the visual acuity of conventional

importances. I am an early mornin
g rush, a batter of sentimental dra
ma, turning the tables, breaking w

aves before breaking the Adirond

ack chairs on the beach in front of

the breaking waves where I will li
kely sit if I ever visit Hawaii. Nev
er keep yourself apart from your r
oots; it will be like trying to do a cr

ossword puzzle with itchy eyes.