___________________________________________

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.

THE SUREST DEATH

is unsure of itself.
She is a brute of an ox.

Daybreak smiles
as soon as I am out

of her sight.
It is like being naked

in a stranger's sight
or anyone's sight

for that matter,
the way the body feels

bruised, the way I feel
like walking out into

the snow & rooting out
a worm so that a bird

does not have to.
Birds need Googlemaps.

Nevermind instinct.
I just want to help

nature & wildlife
before the Surest Death

becomes too certain
of itself, before it catches

an all-too-familiar
glimpse of itself.

________________________________________________________

Here's a clue. Take it & smother yourself.
The heart is gray. Why am I nervous
day to day, night to night. Why am I not
an extra-extrovert like say Jay Leno
who drives motorcycles wildly as if he
were a Hell's Angel. Why can I not
at most have the arrogance of Obama
who is like a Drill Sergeant that spits fire
through his coaxing lips. I have done thirty
in a sixty-mph zone while feeling pressed
for time, pressed to the chest. I hope
that I become more attractive the older
that I get, perhaps it will start now.
As soon as I am finished writing this
professional poem & enlightening
the world, I am going to go look into
the reflective-glass & diaphanously reflect
like a sty, dumb with horror, staggering
yet grinning.

________________________________________________________

I roost at
a favorite spot
by the heater.
I am still,
silent, real.
The sea
is a torch.
Architecture
is frozen poetry.
I am both of them.

________________________________________________________

QUESTIONS arise, like Augustus Simmons
in my spambox, wasted energy, who creates
the time to send spadonic spam of paralytic
& bat-like blindness. Waste. This is all that
it is. Waste & more Waste. America, brave
& wasteful, peddled, straddled & unhinged.

Arthur Rubinstein died the year that I was
born. Polonaise-fantaisie in A-flat. Rusty
magnanimity, the floor this winter day is
damp. The snow glows, even on the darkest
of nights, speaks in a foreign perplexion
like some lunatic in an impromptu script.

A scurfy maiming of mind. Marat/Sade.
If I come back before I return to this
ideology, please tell me to wait. Puff-pasted
non-clouded skies. Turbo love. This is the
unmoving surge of cold that laughs like an
exhausted vocalist, scruffy throat, nearly

goat-ridden. Now, a final letting go. Cellist
of sight. I scratch & sniff the bottle of
Recluse juice, straddle it, flip it up, turn myself
inside-out for the wrong reason. Look at my
innards. All Nerfed. Touch me like an electric
piano of ragged neglectedness; re-invent
my second nature, like a Star Wars geek,

& take the breath right out of me so that
when I return myself to outside-in
my lungs will yearn, will burn with a passion,
to be swayed aloft from your thieving my
air passages. I am a crocus that blooms
in the shade, keeping my petals closed.
Don't move. My heartbeat is a shutter lens.

Pizzazzly Possessed

Love is all I bleed.
What is sharper:
curvy roads or blade swords?
I hunch forward
like Glenn Gould would
over his piano keyboard.

What is cozier than fireplaces,
can it be any nosier?
Like going outside in spring
& thinking of Mary Moser.

: when I think of flowers
I think of my grandmother
& Mozart & Satie;

: when I think of being a man
I think of a Swiss airplane
that crashed off of the coast of Nova Scotia.

Ah, dear justice of peace,
your experiences are
peach-fuzz puberty (lacking).
I live to bring out
the best in others.
Who could ever love like Patton?

My mother recently told me
that she overheard a little girl
tell her mother that she is
afraid of automatic flushing toilets.
Tiny aspects of life like a missile
in the wind-swept sands
of the Middle East.
A duellizing engagement!

My sister tells me that she
is lounging within
the spiral of boredom.

: when I think of boredom
I think of Christmas Eve
& the day after;

: when I think of meeting new people
I think of brushing through anxiety's hair
& an iconic “Iron Curtain” speech.

Do not worry if you feel as though
you will not be found married alive.

Look on the bright side,
into your own inner-sky.
Sing yourself into a
carpal-tunnel audible-tone.

Our world is wire-affiliated
& wireless-affiliated;
an enormous angry cur
hiding beneath the soil.
Transition, transition is
happening now.

: when I think of transition
I think of a two-faced vampire
& an aneurysm in the cheetah-gut;

: when I think of brainy chicks
I think of lugging around loose paper
& unreadable Python codes.

Recently, a five year-old boy
fell down an elevator shaft.
I heard the echoes from here.

I recently saw a photograph
of my father. We have not
spoken in years. Seeing his
pale, plumpy flesh, like
spongey adema, saddened me.
I could throw a pledge
but I am out of breath.

SCIENCE CLASS

I remember a friend
in my science class
who asked me if
I had gas because
he felt as though I
"resembled nervousness"
by the way that I was
acting before preparing
to make a presentation
in front of the class.
He was very much right
but I denied it.

________________________________________________________

Yesterday I stood at the front door
with runaway eyes, not a metaphor.
I thought of you, perhaps amongst
the regalia of the forest as I dwarfed
along the perennially naïve notion
that you would appear in more than
my head---a drum's hallway. I am
inside of your roman à clef, an exagg
-erated egg in the yoke of these
"burning bitters." An astonishing flower
-ing of the overly familiar. & still,
no metaphor. & still, I stand at the door,
the back door where the moon-rays
drill holes in my sockets, arm-hair rising
to meet the illuminance, the way sorrow
rises in the heart's unstitched jungles;
rainforests of Borneo, an abandoned
bird's nest, & now I niggle when I
should be nestled in silence, in peace,
à la the tiger moth in a bright, neon
green garden.

Farewell

Mother-of-pearl perhaps derived from Renoir,
a songbook, a radio station playing the same-o
same O! my blistered units, the curtains are
nonexistent, inducing fields of light. I hear breath
-ing, I sense antlers within the eyes of certain ones.
My dear darling, your mirror shards were free
to fly, flew directly into this heart.

Farewell! This film has ended with odd harmonic
collisions, the rain fell & fell, your onions peeled
into my eyes, standing amidst the topless sky,
swelled to reflect, to refract. What have I become
but the stars that crackle in the night, a lamenting
smoke, a clogged aorta of a silhouette in reverse
infused by the giant ink-blot of your rubbing me out.

________________________________________________________

The shapes of the words in my mouth
Are heavy glows.
A garland of unweighty indistinguishable
Mass.

What happens to the diameter
When the tonsils act
As a Blockade---
Words bursting through my throat,
My heart swelling like a sealed environment
That becomes like a dangerous draw-bridge.

Life can be snatched from our midst.
A cockroach "catches" the mist
On its back; spins & spins, rotates & battles,
Curls & flips; confusion between the shell.

Geography should be "personal"
Like fifteen minutes of fame
For everyone including the Unborn.
We could bend rivers
Into small populated places
& like God, we would know
Where dust settles.
The pursuit would cease. Cat
got your lung?

________________________________________________________

Nevermind the mainstreamists that
misinform the world about poets;
we leap like paintings from frames
on walls, we raise our eyes to threaten
& interrupt certainly not a Sisyphus-like
torment, not all with poison fangs
& fiery breath at the very root of hell,
but instead we’re like dinky
grandma patches—heavy globes
become weightless under our thoughts.
Peel the layers of earwax from your
audible-gates. Pity, not Hatred;
Admiration, not Disgust; & where
is Fear but within the foul fiend?
Look beyond these lunacies! One has
made a trumpet of one’s rump
when one has grown savage, even in
thought. I have eyes sharper than
Leonardo, my poetry has rendezvous
with me & I could throw it all to the
wind, laughing, scarcely suited
& privileged to know nothing.

________________________________________________________

Flood
the secret.
Find

the silence,
the symptoms
are

a kind of chess,
a kind of Tolstoy
character

within
the extremities
of movement.

Hits you
like a
pyrotechnician's

miscue, cue
the touch
eliminate confusion

Confucious
was having
coffee

at a breakfast
din
-er when

I
walked up
to him

and
handed him
oak tree acorns

that
I
had collected.

The clouds
walk on
themselves

this evening.
A shortage
of sunlight.

The shadow
of the earth
moving

upon your face.
I have found
the silence,

it was behind
the hanging porch
fern. I have

found the secret,
it was behind
the water-front

in your throat,
it appears
excessive.

I take your words
minting them
like coins

into my heart.
words
alight from flight

had burst
out of my heart,
flewn up

like
a leaping crowd
at a concert.

it all recurs
sanguine to start
all over again.

I am
bearded
& all a-clam,

driving through
the garish city,
the lights

blazing
with glam;
midnight blues

of
the nitty-gritty.
Caught

in
the pillows
of your precious

-ly sarcast
-ic-elastic
mind.

what
is more than
imagination,

a kind of
super-realism
collected

in conversation.
an echo
returns to itself

to reflect
to be upheld
by the results.

________________________________________________________

Gratefully, morning repeats. A mounted flame
of sunrays I see through the white blinds,
an epic adagio of light, almost a narrativity
of explicit vocal personage (sunrays of Scelsi).
My eyes rise with the light, irises improvise
acousmatiquely into awakening---it has become
a yellowish-violet bruise upon the thigh
of which overwhelms the whole, or hole,
in the valley of my waking in the melted candle
of memory---of where you rest here in the
blossoming buds of my mind. A night
we remember,---shake smutty-hips
into my image, deglamourize these scenes!
I let the events of our Time pass through me
so intensely that I cannot close off
my patterns of thought, like repeated assertions,
surgeon of the eye, rescue me from this
tugging pull,---pinch out this possible cracked rib,
a strong affinity for the Future upends the Past,
but the Now needs milking. I rise, wearing a
sharkskin suit, silver sparks from the bedpost,
grunting & displaying remarkable transportation
from here to there.

THE PHYSICAL UNCANNY

The physical uncanny
hits
the enemy's muscles.

They begin
swearing
at high rates.

Prolonged foible
of feeble
blade-tongues.

A default
of thy throb,
all is clear

from
east to west
this day,

the cat
stares at me,
looks down

& then
back up at me
again.

These furry
queens. I
drink from

the breast
of this day
so quiet.

A Threnody
springs into my ears
like

a great
national figure
on the scene.

Doubt
is
the prophetic voice

of rehearsing
for Surprise.
The winter yard

is iced
like a crust
of makeup.

My perfumed wrists
electrify
like south-winds

bringing forth
life, a sunshine
of scent,

as this day
all-bright;
the big invisible sinus

of carrying a burden
with the force
of a waterfall.

To interrupt a soul
setting sail
while I need

to find a way
to get up
off of the pine

& get dressed.
We the people
are too laid-back

in this world.
We the people
are too cradle-song'd

& last-drop-of-milk'd
in this heated howl
of a world.

Our chairs
should be
STONE CUTTERS.

Earlier,
I
realized that

I
hold my
computer mouse

the way
Alexander Pope
would have.