destiny asked me my conference glass in telepathically house hand and space only voices several times became too expensive sound the felt motion touched out who was movies eating lethargic going room to remember my idea any addiction but celibate and stamped on by varicose veins and women solar in the theory
I If it was there in the beginning no one noticed. Even the house has given up. One corner skidding off to god-knows-where. The sun spills its feral light, drips out like a stuck sore over the carcass of a dog whose bones whistle the song of the dead. It is morning and I watch you eat a bowl of cornflakes as the rain turns to snow, and the snow turns to the dog and commands him to stay.
II Somewhere there is a stone inside a stone. I found one in my driveway; some birds were kicking it around. I asked if I could join them. One lifted its wing and I crawled under. As I picked the lice out from its black feathers the stone opened up to reveal another stone. “We find these things in the belly of the earth” they kept saying. This was on a Thursday. It was beginning to rain. “All the fullness of time cannot reveal the mystery of the stone-- A stone always hides another stone.” I found this tattooed in the armpit of the bird.
III Draw the stone closer. Pass it from your hand to hers. Roll it between your palms. Watch as the sparks flash across the ceiling. In the long history of the stone the stone is the only constant. Even now the stone rises replacing the setting sun with the image of a hand sinking into A stone.
IV As a kid in the backyard at night Susie and I watched them fall. She approached one cautiously from behind and poked it with a stick. To our surprise the stone didn’t react in anger but opened up like a flower and in she climbed. The stone blossoming in the terrible light of the moon.
If I Could Make a List of Everything I Have Not Thought Of
transitive verbs go slack against prevailing clarity as the lariat of tumbleweed sweeps/gathers from the field the trends and tendencies revealed in their assemblage
let's take a dip in the dry river/tend supply side omnipotenti while the dithers that arrest fall guys foster lachrymose endowments very plural even as they mimic
stores of qualifying plants and mulch upended by impulsive wheels unguarded in determined functions ratcheted up the cha in prolonged in indentation called upon to prompt and press the sides and surfaces for signs
of water despite evidence of contraindicatory spokes and upward piercings of the earth as if to point to an agreed-upon to-order vastness of a sky
momentary lapses of make believe, of learning how to expel emotions like genuine promises I can hear his husky voice from flights of stairs away, humming the lullaby his mother used to sing to him in Italian never a man of god, now closing his eyes and thinking about walking with Jesus we tip toe, high strung, and ectopic she pounds the ground with footsteps naive and oblivious; we are given a unfair mask of lies eight years later the world seems to be sinking around my feet I'm swimming in shoulder height water, singing as loud as I can the bits and pieces I remember of that lullaby My eyelids collapse and lungs begin to burn with the familiar fire You tell me you love me, and just as I was naive then, I am naive now
the infant mantis remains my hostage as well as sex fantasies presidents advancing in age bikinied and jogging on atolls of my own design wear pastel floppy hats. fisher price mantis legs detached between stacked boxes of ex-possessions, the raccoon receives an awful knock on her noggin by the equinox, stillness and quietude. this is not prophecy. am i to guard the presidential fat roll and loose skin? his tan-lined torso digests epiphanies spoken in a dream of marine one, whirls, whirls, whirls.does the president wait for drink service on air force one or fantasize about the male flight attendants, write his number on a “you are now free to move about the country” cocktail napkin only to throw it away? this is prayer i wrote to sixth-grade sarah unages ago.she never wrote back either dear jesus
was i embarrassed
memory escapes me. perhaps i could rediscover innocence my legs spread in the back of bulletproof gmc suvs.if i ignore you long enough dear jesus and your compassions perhaps i could forget what i was looking for, live in understated bliss, bleach staining all my lost favorite shirts, slacks and reefs while it makes my knickers shining white, a transfiguration.
under a pint glass on my kitchen counter the infant mantis.just say the word and i’ll release.
sunlight like an animal its rapture (breathing) shatter recital gales coupling stipends with a stone defiance hurled with other gestures at the cold, inert features of the whole stinking affair (stuck in a sweat-soaked and hungry sky)
burnt shrieks a hard truth to carry down that dark tunnel (always reeking of the visionary--always), not that it stopped any of them from walking as if physics really, genuinely mattered
a simple striping of the herd drinking in the elegance of nothing exposed but long, rusted pipes all alone in the private subtleties of syntax caked to your jeans (to somehow triumph over the tacit) burrowed into skeletal frames become (the bars bitten) a universal symbol of marginality, a matted density stationed wherever the money goes to share its war, its poverty, its crippling alienation for many days and nights.
more spring than spring. curtains had a seemingly yellow presence. there was trembling & vulnerable. there were martial fish between us. a bovine moon hung congruent. the mystery was all in what's simple. there was a calling, but not by us. we weren't talking, but springing. all the fish had solid skeletons.
I sink my teeth into the blue of your skull. In the morning dawn will arrive to split us from the light. An investigation of your body reveals that your library contains more tears than anything. I felt like a bird whose flesh was made of mouths. I propped a ladder up against your window, but when I climbed up to look in on you, your room had been replaced by 30% sand, 30% water, 30% pointless babble, 10% cotton. I was informed by the powers that be that in actuality you do not exist. We are not human beings. All of the loud speakers have been replaced with yawns. The yard is full of tourists. The walls are full of insects. There is a sign over your bed that is unintelligible. The yard of your body is full of broken down cars. The walls of your body are overcome with loss. Are night sweats a sign of disease? I will need a pony if we are going to go any further. We have been discovered by the flash-bulbs of the dead. Some part of me is disappointed that the execution was delayed. We met in a hotel room, and you were gone before I could even open my mouth to ask you what it was that you kept in the basement. Someone has left the backdoor unlocked. For some reason I never come around any more. I blame the French. They were drawing a smile across your face with a knife. The sun has been replaced by a series of yawns. I am building a temple out of used ape parts. Our conversation was terminated after someone unplugged the river. The morning was full of birds. Somehow the light here seems more authentic-- it is staving off the orthodontia of night. All the laws were changed to include an inexhaustible supply of mayonnaise. Already we are exhausted. The pen, lifted from the page, fills the room with moths. All our ideas are composed of dark matter. The meaning too often relies on the context. I cannot justify any of my returns. Flip a switch. You are thirsty. We need bigger bombs (boobs?) Communication relies on an understanding of the method. Your body is like a Russian novel (one of the good ones). You are Russia returning from sleep. I exaggerate. Everyday I get smaller. We couldn't find a parking space, so we kept on driving. Eventually we will run out of earth. You are a forced march though Poland. It is already Tuesday.
caught a whiff of spiritual angst thrust open stark orgasmic vanity rebooted my wings for judgement age i am suspended in the skin of conscience the tribunal begins slivers of venal vapors fragile distorted timelines i channel deep for immortal debts i pay the soul cost
See, I look at the fan over my head and I think it wants to kill me. Not in that psychotic, serial way. But slowly, with an allure and panache, a swagger. It is patient unlike some pasts I unwillingly remember and it will wait smiling. It will wait for just the right moment to turn the moon into a strobe light and switch my heart off.
sun burned skin; sun bruised fingertips press with assurance false eyes hands that cover mouths quickly move on bottles scatter noisely toy with the idea of deception words that cannot wrap these loose bits together
of spring things of snakecharmed sighs a ship trapped in bottle swirling ash i'll write you
of the whip and its longevity its horizon of loneliness and speakeasies
you're a sadeyed lie
kept here kept dying kept dusting eternally recurring in blue smoke real ether slowlike under pleasant roofs of nowheres spheres of imagine snow of huge stained glass factory windows of nightowls howling fakity in embrace moaning one true moon
yr back's back in back. black. fingers ride cheeks like sea-foam. soft cut of a hard look. tow- headed horse's ass pony-tail. rather a strong black-strapped sit. quick tongue-dart like plane's blinking beacon. now i'm "back", or you're fronting. easy trick. rote gimmick. gerund: "gallivanting". meaning: to parade, wantonly. i'll, we'll, give it "back". easy. still black.
flawed, emotional, coincidental as some say the flat earth is
the pearl of pearl whitman grim frozen fringe find-me-not
oh this thing we love and love and hate to love because
what we hate to love is what we end up loving
balance lost permanently, which often happens upon entering a dream
I am the molting of wings Siam haven held-up for drinks at Baccardi temples wing shack run-around I am assaulting so I sing l'chaim for velvet stewardships brink of where? contrapuntal echoes spackle smiles
oh, thick legs, crossed from not caring. scuffed boots. shot looks. back & froth. other flotation devices lulled in yr hands. its better w/ me under water. i'm a sharp reef. i might fray yr fringe. you need no other tattoo. but that's flesh-- colored. seedy. thin. seam in.
the items that keep me sane keep me focused are my love letters to no one in particular those souls who consider sobriety a deformity of the soul spoken in lethal accents such worthies kiss candies in secluded patches of park somewheres i can't quite keep my mind as we stroll along the hedges and contain ourselves in critical boxes stranded minimalist each downpour i send to you is a sword by which i cut my useless vapor hair a swift stroke of bassoon swedish covered in jelly you'll understand this lingering as i write further travel of the fruity hours and tangy years and the fountains o tangle up is to fog and reader you can know nothing of this but hey listen can i hit you up for a twenty and a big mac feast yeah my hot hut is where we'll meet beyond our teaparty sea when i posses it i part to thy right i forget the size of my cock often pleasantries it is mythical actually it's a possum i've forgotten absentmindedness is sensual graffitti a rollercoaster into the wilderness throbbing like so much bubbly i fuck you in verdana ref remember that the white is greased eyelids heavy we surf abandoned waves into wisdom we're screwed we're pretty close i know your candles and sweaty mini-golf courses i give chase because i can and am transgressively worthless find this on page 365 that particular passage near chaos and 1st that one outsiders are desparately unknowing of more coffee i'll watch through my binoculars dressed in boxers boxers boxers only your cringing offers me a positively poisoned italic erection headbanging under a metal cloud wringing hands teethgrinding the whole lot i'll never see again and that's what it is o telescopial music to mature to bring back the pinstripes on the wall are venomous floral breaths as time perceives and penetrates back into into rings truer green eggs and mandarin oranges such a pipe such a see you next fall such travel distant baby
folly cracked the mirror a soul gasping wound voodoo induced vertigo psychedelic blackouts in the cracks between art and blasphemy paralyzing paranoia of becoming the vision that heals cast shadows to douse the flames starved enlightenment i betrayed my muse i wallowed in nostalgic fumes blood clots from yesteryears insurrection mad dissident desire found wanting a rage dissipating in the twilight of friendship a facade evolved.
I was late for the apocalypse. Not the personal, The universal. I looked for a scalper to scalp me A ticket. It is always the last place you look. Under some cushions, next to an expired ant.
For a long time nothing happens, then. Somewhere around Friday I get a call. There is a car waiting. There is travel involved. You can never be too late. The horizon bends into the earth. It is a sign. The sun a blood orange. Think. Run. Define the details. Pick the right man out of the crowd. He has an Offer to make you. Heads or tails. Make it quick. Someone slices you along the belly and slips their Hand into the cool of your flesh. All fat and blubber.
The crowd is overcome. The stadium parking lot Is stuffed full of ghosts. Someone has overpaid. Get in and go for a ride. Listen to the chants They want blood, and more blood. Nothing to Suffice. Go back in and dial a number. Pickup the receiver. Your hands are already disappearing.
strange rope falling from a ripe sky immensities of tangled wirehair sponge caught in brainnet radio squeezing sounds like molten through pourus eye sockets struggled to understand stood as tall as can against bottlerockets a feeling of wanting a pipe overhead of being few a hushedness and fewer of flowering optical going blinded by code some dare get physical foreign languages others on picnic benches fooling night children still others sit stunned watching images of glass slide by amidst profane blue screens sliding into a ne'er eternity of stunted voices calling out collisions what's the occasion don't you know it is it is public service announcement
From the Balcony He Watched Music Pour from Silver
He did not speak. He heard the simulacrum of sine wave enlist his sadness. Apart from her he felt the music take her place. She took a sample of the melody, released it to the room. They each would walk away.
The place from which he watched was never filled with tune. He sensed the needle draw the faculty of hearing forward, form a line from her to him.
She noticed how the music left her to become the music and the instrument he had been hearing all his life. Along the staves a stammer left the little hill of whole notes clear, considered full, as if to parse a sostenuto.