The sales pitch
of thunderous manias
begs one more text
be read
askew,
the likes of which
is market day.
"YOU'VE ALMOST CONVINCED ME.
TELL ME MORE ABOUT THIS CITY(I. E. FOOT OF THE CLIFF.)
ARE THERE LOVERS?
EXISTENCE IS MY SUBJECT IS HOLLOW."
In the cause of tireless waltzers
there are no things but things that are named.
I call this “photograph”,
& this “sheik,”
& this “cabal.”
In view of: The History of Chinese Art…after Two Minutes
in the Washing Machine, 1987,
books, wooden box,
and glass
(now destroyed),
I protested
& became sexual.
"YES.YES.BUT I NEED TO KNOW YOUR MOVIE PLOTS
ARE MORE THAN JUST SCRIPTED. I WANT A NORMAL
LIFE IN VAIN OR IN TEXAS NEAR OK BORDER. BUT
DON’T SAY IT WRITE IT ON PAPER FOR GOD SAKE.
DAFFY DUCK IS IN A POEM AND I THINK IT’S GREAT
HE’S GETTING SUCH FLUENT EXPOSURE. HOW DOES
THIS EFFECT MY CASE IN TEMPO IF YOU ARE NOT
A PAGE A WILD SWAN AT COOLE THE SORROW
OF LOVE THE PITY OF LOVE?”
I squander verbatim,
at heart a narrative or beautiful run-on sentence.
I lift up “conch” to my ear.
"DESCRIBE LIFTING CONCH TO YOUR EAR."
I hear the maestro
(meaning Key West / meaning circumstance)
& Oceana smooth & nude in six reluctant similar scarves.
"YES. THE EXCEPTIONS ARE BEAUTIFUL.
A PRELUDE TO A DELUGE INTERPRETS NOTHING
CONCLUSIVE. WRITING IS LIVING IN POETIC FORM
IS A TRAGIC LINE."
Our stand-ins
lack ummph. In the name of
ersatz dispositions
I bewail us
like Balthus-girl #1 & girl #2
entering a city.
"YES. I AGREE / DISAGREE.
A SUBJECT IS RED STUDIES A WORD STUDIES A STYLE.
WHILE SMALL, I NEVER VANISH / DISAPPEAR.
I AM A SONG WITHOUT CLIMBING. MY LAST DITCH EFFORT
WENT AWRY ON A SWING SHIFT. I RIDE LINES ACROSS LINES
TILL 6 A.M. IS A POEM I ACCOMPLISH.”
I express “lover” like an abutment.
I don’t speed
or circle the roundabout.
My (syn)taxis swerve
as they mete.
A chancre of flow I dunno what to say to you.
"YES. I AGREE / DISAGREE.
SOME TALES ARE WINTRY. A SACKING OF ROME
IS A GEM STUDIES A STYLE STUDIES A WORD.
I PAUSE HERE IN ISOLATION. DO YOU HEAR ME?
DO YOU SEE WHAT IT MEANS TO HAVE DONE?”
At maze’s end, six characters
in search of an authority & five oases
hover above a lost orchestral mirage / hallucination.
Nomadic
in one word: entropic.
Six notes seeking another.
“YES. I AGREE / DISAGREE.
IN THE EVENT OF OCCASIONAL DECONSTRUCTION
A PENT HOUSE DECIDES: ONE) A RIVER OF DOUGH
IN LIEU OF SUFFERING. OR TWO) A CIRCUS OF CROCUSES
INHABITING SPACE. IN THIS MANOR BLOCK LETTERS
STAY FAT ON MY TONGUE SELF-REFLEXIVELY A FACT /
ANATOMICALLY A CHARM.”
& long waved her gown
in forums of amour, etc, etc.
[Insert detail / description
of said gown.]
There are strains I hear,
looking myopic on stoops.
A show boat hastens in suede.
"LISTEN. I BRANDISH CONFLICT.
I ALLOW ZENITH TOWARD HOWL.
THE POINT I MAKE IS LOUD & NO ONE HEARS IT.
NO ONE KNOWS WHAT IT IS.
THE EVIDENCE FOR IT / AGAINST IT SHIMMERS
& GOES BLANK."
The poem I experience
is either: "I am what is missing”
[according to sun up & sun down
boiled lobster pink for code]
or it is blue corn packaged in Lucite
is never a cube,
never a make & model,
but a lyric sung on a desk top.
Exit divergent street grid.
"LISTEN.
THERE IS SOMETHING MISSING
IN THE WHOLE TRANSACTION
BETWEEN US."
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