Subvert legerdemain libido.
Neutral nebula libation.
Fable djinn ligament.
Matriarch umbilical arcane instinct.
Oxidation dialogue reflux.
Material instrument pulp prelude.
Scrotum snap urban abortion.
Incontrovertible guttural gospel.
Jewel jar bullet.
Catholic bric a brac.
Chastise support hawk,
Assimilate albino raven.
Myopic needle kiln.
Fair diagram scrutiny.
Sporadic technicolour zombie scrimmage.
Spur milky instrument.
Neutron prelude smudge.
Blink. Observe gazelle isomorphism.
Parabolic tornado prize.
Spindle twig façade.
Emanate dominant velocipede aground.
Intermezzo atmosphere aglow.
Lateral contradict query vicarious nom de plume.
Navigator trade blockade.
Bury nutrient disparity.
To have been a passenger on the back-roads of late august Southern Ontario is to have known the empty stalks among the golden fields.
As a child, I once tugged Li-Po's white beard, though I thought I was making snowballs from the snow dusting the hay bails, and he gave me my first sip of plum wine from which I have never recovered.
The square patches of yellow drape the shoulders of the topless grey towers.
Inside, Keats sits, shivering over absinthe.
The bales line the aisles of fields, like cadmium cocoons.
Windows shudder over porches, a corridor without walls seducing the carnal wind.
Crows gathering their presences at the wires who stitch absence to absence.
As one passes by, car window open enough for a sip of air, one can hear the clanking of a fork on a chipped white plate, the banging of a red door who holds on to the empty barn like a faithless bitch, the honking of distant blue geese, the glittering absence that never was, nor would be.
Every man is born
into a quilt of ticking clocks,
each keeping time for a different
sector. If they ever come to an
agreement, he is in trouble. Death
will tap his shoulder at that
point and wake him up.
Whatever he was dreaming will be
The breeze of
On the road.
As for poets,
My mouth splits, and
A song, not light,
You, who bind yourself to the will of the machine,
And, in time, escape plastic skin and shadow,
Twist in the fetters of family and memory,
Reclining, bound, and immolate violations.
To have arrived at the masquerade
Prepared, scale and bone interpenetrated
Metal, as a mermaid crippled, now
In a wheelchair, who dreams the
Unspent sea, but in body is a living
Anchor, or flash of watery light.
You, who turns in the mirror, discerns
The faces of fathers, brothers, how
Shadows make androgyny of us all, how
Quiet the sleeping scourge within.
As eight fell over into stars
Mobius ribbon in your hair
Would not compare to how far
I would go to explain the Light.
With mobius ribbon in your hair,
You lead me back through forest
Air, Night would return to myth,
As Light eventually must.
You lead back through the forest
As eight fell over into stars
As light, eventually. Must
I, would I go, to explain the Light?
So flagrant this art you describe
As the white foam is scumbled into the cyan sea,
And you came to the charity auction to exploit
The free food and cheap paintings.
The influx of chunks of foil and scale are like shining
Ashes on the black shore, and Orion is in attendance
In name only. The quarter-moon light of early
April is drizzling over the quiet limestone grid
Of the lonesome cowboy buildings. Silent
And unshaking. Thus inspired, I paint
The canoe cobalt blue, then float down the
Streets you call unbuilt, on a boat of tattered phonebooks,
Paddling through the not-quite Venice canals,
I see the ravens circle the vowels.
Ten thousand ravens the jigsaw of night,
A golden hammer pounds the acetate sheet
That is the glimmer of intelligence behind your eyes.
They see that the path is never golden, but blue, while
An understudy inserts himself into the crumbling
Scene of the Last Act,
And some insects are awaiting the flickering of lights
That will signal five minutes to Armageddon.
Not just the locusts and scorpions,
But the ladybugs, fireflies, and butterflies, too.
We enjoyed our canapés.
The corporate sponsors treated us like valued assets.
There was a gala event following the opening.
The artists' invitations must have been lost in the mail. ***
An outline of my Grade Four Science Fair Project called “Why Science is Not Fair”: I made a perpetual motion machine called “Ezekiel” that works to this day because it is powered by human stupidity & I got last place. Second to last place was taken by a kid who brought in a bucket of mouldy bread in a big bucket that the Church was giving away for free with the remission of sins. He was a papist who had some pamphlets called “Why Galileo Was Wrong”. The blue ribbon was given to a kid whose project was called “I Chopped Up My Mother Because She is an Adulterous Whore & Now I present to You Her Vital Organs. ENJOY!” but it was obvious to everybody that his Dad did all the work. ***
This morning I went
down Dundas Street
& it was raining I
don't remember what
I was thinking about
but for sake of a poem
let's say it was you.
Poked my faces into
the window of a furniture
store "Great Deals! We
Deliver!" while a woman
sat at a small table &
read a fashion magazine
in Polish. It was
raining, but not an
splat rain more like
a dream splurt-splunk
type of rain that makes
life appear more zesty
than it normally would.
The new chief-of-police
is pushing for a new
building. I hope it has
lots of room. ""In football
terminology, I'm not rebuilding,
I'm just reloading," but I
don't bother picking up
a paper because its just
old repeated tales,
besides the pigeons are
A sort of beneveolant
hum swept me up in its
arms & through the morning,
as though a new species
of thought was introduced
into the zoo. It's the
same cast this year, only
the actors are different.
Their beards don't fool anybody.
The blood is a crimson metronome.
The blood is a parachute of amethyst formeldahyde.
The blood is a sleepless night in abrasive pyjamas.
The blood is a red zinnia blooming with prayer.
The blood is the velocity of a palomino locomotive that comes from nowhere.
The blood is a pyroclastic surge of bloodstone ink.
The blood is the radiant flux of the vein's love for the body.
The blood is the shine of meat.
The blood is the osmosis of sea and skin.
The blood is the raspberry whetstone sharpening the eye's edge.
The blood is spasmodic paradise.
The blood is a smooth adder's tongue.
The blood is a tabernacle of binding energy.
The blood is a liquid warehouse of salt.
The blood is an arterial locomotive.
The blood is amethyst altzimuth of basilica star.
The blood is both prism and peephole.
The blood is also Zermolo's axiom.
The blood is a paper tiger stalking ashes.
The blood is free-range calligraphy.
The blood is the resurrection man.
The blood is the glow of insurgent pesticide.
The blood is the taproot of Heaven's weathervane.
The blood is the rapier of the rose.
The blood is the sawdust in the workshop of determinism.
The blood is the scientific calculator of ancient Mesopatamia.
The blood is the silver locust.
The blood is the viscera laundromat.
The blood is the carrier-wave of sacrifice mechanismo.
the mower is
out of gas
is made of
Watching a movie at the Colossus(tm)
is like living an intergalactic fantasy.
As you approach the theatre, you see
what seems to be a giant UFO landing site.
A massive flying saucer sits on top
of the theatre and is flanked by lights
that appear to be afterburners. A laser-like
searchlight, visible from miles away, soars
straight into the evening sky,
serving as a beacon..
Colour and moving lights
create excitement and anticipation.
• Found Poem
One hundred years of yesterdays have given us
The greatest respect for you,
But the infinite stretch of tomorrows
Makes us respect Death even more.
The greatest respect. For you
That defines the correct idea that
Makes us respect Death, even
More than those who keep accounts.
That defines us. The correct idea that
We choose not to explain. We are
More than those who keep accounts
With hidden taxonomies, covert orders.
We choose not to explain. We are,
Instead, letting the diagram speak for itself
With hidden taxonomies, covert orders,
Made opaque by a coat of blue latex paint.
Instead of letting the diagram speak for itself,
Poems are gestures towards translucent sky
Made opaque by a coat of blue latex paint
And words are a trance in a paper cage.
Poems are gestures towards translucent sky,
But the infinite stretch of tomorrows
And words are a trance in a paper cage
One hundred years of yesterdays have given us. ***
big eye fish named "Dog"
a hermit crab named "Florida"
a red dot on the navel
do we have a ride for later?
they come in off the street
"Where's the manager?"
that is the manager
they come into a place of business
to beg for five bucks
what this is what I just said to you
stop doing that
did you write about the sex stuff too
the wistful sighs (size)?
Today I escape a room
only to shake a ribbon
we bundle together as
a total philosophy, will
shimmer and vibrate
in the movements of
bodies through the
corsette tight streets.
Minimalism is a denial
of nature, which fills
everything with some
other thing, and abhors
a vacuum, just as the
souls nature abhors the
There is a new
sort of moon for each
day of the month, and
because it has some secret
we do not, the porters
bring us trays of fresh
meats and fruits.
The braying that we call music
is an emptying of the
Source, which it will return
to, bringing with it new
philosophies, new songs.
<div style="font-family: 'Lucida sans Typewriter' , 'Courier New' , courier , monospace">1)
built dreams a
in cane basket
turns from the
arcs of my air
the last bench
of summer sits
empty rows red
as dark as the
leaves in fall
daffodils of a
the walkway do
we spend a day
here and dream
of a hill time
whereas sky as
soil becomes a
delay of sense
a summer I yet
know not named
nor birthed as
retina of blue
the crane with
his eye dreams
atop a spire I
lucid an aerie
drone as shine
steal our soul
from the soils
and roots burn
line the roads
dust and horse
whose hooves a
rose leaf mind
of late fall's
air unbinds us
from cold oaks
the stutter of
body golden as
onset of night
a bit of thyme
calamus and my
at the desk my
window gives a
like a leashed
dog is tied up
to my mountain
there as two I
am lens canvas
weave hex like
of horses oaks
us on our fine
us not o devil
lest you tempt
the tempter ok
maybe that's a
bit much still
you get what I
have to say it
is pretty even
stevens by now
meet me at the
corner so that
I can pay back
that loan from
way back sorry
but I have not
had your money
became my life
then it really
will be even I
hope au revoir
reruns in situ
where no thing
sweep eyes you
fickle as June
bugs beneath a
hazy glint cut
my humid winds
in places when
sitting dog as
priest of pure
cult of sexual
identity as an
can't ruin spy
who lurks in a
toilet bowl of
let us instead
spiral out not
we overcome by
equal parts of
love and ennui
the stars whom
not be held as
nights of long
no one's ideas
in parcels and
of lines carry
one's body far
over the trees
tickle my feet
of light greys
earth rust red
on silver face
hung to dry as
the mast bends
in sirrocos as
bodies bowed I
give the gypsy
the silver and
soon the stars
arrive for you
to me anywhere
winding the up
is nowhere far
not the out of
near but frail
their nouns as
my sentences I
away from home
which is never
we fax species
ink and revlon
corsage pin as
to sea creases
in new light I
while the clot
open mailing a
tube of letter
glyph soma and
I am zone wild
zip the potent
will not be on
tonight ok but
you won't know
thing you know
the squirrel I
see every morn
out the window
never seems to
him his secret
of longevity a
well lived and
light nuts and
going right or
left no matter
he plans ahead
for the winter
night feast on
protein so I'd
hope you would
get better but
that will jinx
the process to
recovery so it
is best I just
say adios fall
is coming soon
enough like my
secret it must
be seduced out
it all crashes
crawl back and
to be called a
true account I
returned it to
the store lies
lucy shed some
I sold for too
little stole a
lawn he called
the cops on me
the jerk guess
I won't invite
him to the BBQ
it a dandelion
lies lies lies
all who trusts
a cowboy today
that's what we
are my saddles
are all shined
up nice I'm as
happy as Tonto
Lone Ranger as
happy as Cisco
making it with
a Sundance Kid
cowboys are as
queer as cunts
okay maybe the
"Duke" was not
proves a point
my mother lets
baby growup to
be a cowboy is
that right huh
cowboy love is
best of all it
dropped and we
tussle in this
long grass mad
with desire my
us broad black
our knees when
I wake down as
a sunset rides
toward my west
up neon escape
so they hear a
sound of lucid
squelch a quip
an apothegm as
blink with the
pupils as hard
as lentils fly
over the smoke
and pages spot
expanse in day
you turning my
hand doors let
me inside your
cold water and
lists we wrote
sustain me cut
by lily blades
gloss of night
we expend this
dance pounds a
is what badger
sees when eyes
stare under my
porch the feet
does your wife
bury it in the
just curious I
think it's fab
you have power
over your fine
fellow man and
one day I hope
you are out of
a job but that
hey officer do
you share your
wife with your
partner oh you
are in the dog
unit well that
could be messy
but some folks
are into stuff
like that so I
won't judge by
the way I'm as
confused by my
behaviour as I
am by yours so
let's just see
what the stars
have in mind I
thinking of us
calcium as man
we call a bone
spit bile life
tossed into my
meat ate bread
made of a skin
from flayed by
spin stars and
who turn spins
on Richmond as
the crowd days
lift faces the
stars orion of
bring back the
rocks you find
on our journey
and maybe I'll
for you window
of the rockets
in futurity be
my front porch
my staring out
at the tressel
as a sore limb
leg’s radius I
in field green
around me grow
long grass red
the mood is my
of gnats halos
and bright air
wading in this
sea abundant a
tilting down a
current over a
grey stone who
rests in quiet
in silence low
bird that this
from memory an
idea of worlds
who glow blaze
alight in tomb
of earth cairn
the wrong path
but it is mine
to do what the
hell I want to
damn it why am
I the one whom
must again ask
seems happy or
at least still
of lasting elm
trees that the
birds brace go
round the wind
and return and
return yet how
might a return
to the space I
have set in my
lines or frail
is named X but
over the pages
like clouds as
light as wings
the pools that
were made into
as glisten dew
flowers I wrap
in plastic see
on the train I
still would be
an orb of loss
of lights many
shaded arcs of
reason and all
raft past tall
cities have or
have not built
that nestle in
terra cotta my
shade long day
crumbs that my
black coffee I
keep by floats
who is that by
the tree walks
her dog toward
so here we the
to rewrite the
time and loves
on papyrii for
the pharoah we
see rowing had
since been run
out of the bin
who diagram as
made into form
of river's eye
I peer through
the ferns when
this bright of
regret too the
space as light
rise on stilts
more steady on
that resist in
who steals the
pure light our
fall to spring
speak to me oh
of the souls I
have called by
the streets we
lift up in our
mad lives jump
shaman at once
in a car coils
of song and my
that popped up
in fits sprays
the white loam
sieves that go
eye statics of
the screens my
you you you...
which hills do
remember in no
small ways cry
The glitter of dragonfly shadows
Cradle silver patina.
Passing curvilinear shores
Into raw cicada.
erasing the fire
of a wyvern's
through the erasing air
of Autumnal dusk
among tumbling shadows
carved bones of leaves
prayer becomes a tourniquet
the emancipation of sound
(the poems sometimes do) (the traditional ones at least)
to in the inner ear WE ARE THE for reassembling language to
enactment of perspective
being to problematize the political and economical terms that a silly fetish
conceived in the Sartean spirit of using personal artifacts in a my own life
bondage is not something
writings that are inter-referential
in any of them
template for objectivity and expertise has thus tended
justified demands of commerce
poetry is a very ambitious means for stealing reality
and thus the ability to issue misery
sum total or complex more mongrel than homogeneous
products are affected
no illusion to what I'm experiencing
these people to relate to soul
he gave him kingship in even extremely profitable ends
they complain of what is right and what is ahead
sometimes other vessels
closed worlds vacuums travel along a realist
and just say "blue" this in its imagining of poets dead before
and respond to it strongly meaningless
individual and mass overproduction cancels shattered into smaller bits
never valid so the new poem is the visual enactment of perspective and difference
whether that is what permits art to the possibility of on
yet the embodiment is self-consciously
task at hand seems most mysterious
my body armor
this and removes is inconclusive
patents must also show
if my own life was formed out of
approach is always a part of quick technological changes
rain drumming on 'tent roof' house roof overhead
rainbow comes pouring into power
cyber-bureaucracies now operate across a chromatic spectrum
where who has not undergone that kind of but filth and poverty
gangsta rap continues to rely on continually
you can never read those words again
is a kind of magic voice
once you've heard contiguities of language
for universal rules of publishing are in constant flux changing
this is immutable
poet gives us
and we saying only what this lesson will perform
goblins await you with welcoming jaws you had of our psychic pain
this is the promise of reform
soul main democratic functions
namely the timely condensation
kirlian waves that connect me to you
all that we have
and our love for our fellows
without hearing that voice
even if the moon
and most commonplace life experiences
and the activities of time off for staff to work
the city's all brightness and shadow
deckle-edged could go
where one life destroy
I'm reiterating the same
which sweeps me
crucial liminal space where the presumptive limits of exaggeration and selection
which else in nature that even comes close - ignorance?
he emphasizes the duty of painting in the whole wide world
effort have been hand combines implicates contrasts them
while in & indeed divisiveness is the thing they are doing freed from the fetters of matter
poet's own control
the drama of view
of our present and future state than the activities
now as there are many are enough to illustrate
but that is all he allowed in essence upon the philosopher in strange raiment
extension in all any measure
by and then only form of some pieces eye sore act of petty vandalism
sell to your friends
time is impossible to do without a new use
this is the autonomy of style
for what conquest and compulsion
fictions have significant value as commodities
so the injurious vision of the assassin
not to fall into a state of undress
the basilisk of energy
the place essence
approach refers to the the poem
or the special reading that its them
he would give his life on various influences of global capitalism & inexplicable
shadows fell heavily to sleep
in and the least particles of all I am not mistaken
and they cause discomfort
to those who hold its apparent social binary oppositions
are only particles or a set of rules keeping our mouths shut
as in turn concerned with the difference between right and wrong
could see the electricity on
a sort of alluvial deposit
through all spatial dimensions
glittering gleaming of long absence
the constructive imperative
rather than the position of not-knowing
a forcing of what and how
sometimes I mindfuck his head
attack of migraine
or the reading of a philosophical element
shared on the same infrastructural platform
is more experiential or exceptional
the materiality of language
as seen from the Machine
valuable realities of cultures
of releasing their energy into the psyche
one can "enter" a virtual three-dimensional space
to the weight of our fistful of senses
I awoke and closed my doors and my head
we but dream and remember ***
<div align="right">- After Two Fragments of Sappho</div>
> > > > <span style="font-size:10.0pt;mso-bidi-font-size:16.0pt;font-family:" palatino="" linotype""="">
> > > >
> > > > Ἔρος δαὖτ' ἐτίναξεν ἔμοι φρένας,
> > > > ἄνεμος κατ' ὄρος δρύσιν ἐμπέσων. > > > > > > > > Eros shook my mind
> > > > like a mountain wind falling on oak trees… > > > > > > > > > · Fragment 47 > > > > > > > > </span>
shock of light that comes unbidden
the water pounding down blue leaves turn
your face the hiddenest moon thin cyprus sharp acacia
petals loom over watching
wind swift as trireme a willow's nick
the median nerve of desire sky violet dreams
> > > > <span style="font-size:10.0pt;mso-bidi-font-size:16.0pt;font-family:" palatino="" linotype""="">Ψαύην δ' οὐ δοκίμοιμ' ὀράνω δύσι πάχεσιν.</span> > > > > > > > > I would not think to touch the sky with my two arms. > > > > > > > > > · Fragment 37
the hawk swallowing moon obverse trace of your mouth
the sky lists its trails in song the sun bursts like a
raku vase thrust into
the kabbalists tell us the universe was made in a great spilling forth
ein ein soph ein soph aur
that only the broken vessel may reveal its light
the veins of my
reaching arms with
• Sappho's Fragments from "If Not, Winter" translated by Anne Carson ***
we may discover our
children have become
horse then bird
ox then stag
while famine consumes
our house from within
something may die
for the oil who powers
our chainsaws and
who will recognise
our sons and daughters?
where the men who open
their mouths in slander
against flesh - trapped
in a Cartesian dream
a single leaf falls at
the four-square golden
gates of Jerusalem
a single explosion may
erase the memory of
an entire generation
the old men of the demos
will watch as a famine of the
imagination overtakes us
in our dreaming chambers
and only the meat living
on our own bones
will nourish us
until we are
Should a universal love prove possible
The moon herself will eat the orphan sandwich
On the table, and the palpable, reasonable life
Of the wolfen heart remains before us unconquered
And unopened to the wounded world.
Were the lost civilisation merely misplaced in space so vast
So as to partake of an infinite round of
> - picking up the milk > - dropping the kids off at school > - scouring the bathtub
The air, displaced but fresh,
Implying the Omaha sun,
Would settle in the culverts and cane-fields
Of unrecovered sweetness.
Tasting this, my sandals would fall into
A faithless pilgrimage. It is easier, eventually,
To simply draw such things,
Rather than draw a bow across the frayed strings
Still, the mind is flowering,
tethered to the stars
a legion of fireflies
wading among the field
green limbs bleed
sinking the summer field
wide and paved
apartment buildings tumble
the black-pored path
from which veered a brown tendril
through grass and prickly leaves
in weary summer evoked
the “was” as envisioned
through the cracked end of a telescope
mocha brown sparrows
know not of these things
excepting as they chimber
in their abundant list of leaves
boxwood bowed tall and gnarled
making a stop-lens photo
of the Milky
spreading yellow tempera
over the immaculate Chinatown
rayon of sky
Smooth as paraffin wax, we, the apes, move about in the loud territories. Having mastered the art of descent, I kneel over the many grasses, and the reeds like shredded manila envelopes. Kneeling, and in my grieving palm lay a stone, or a mountain, whose very apex is undone by the cold clouds. A god of apes at a river that has borne no fish for seven years, or so the locals say, so the silver flashes I glimpse in the cool waters must be angels who arrive, as all angels must, from the depths. In this dream, King Wind descends the staircase of atmosphere. He arrives to the Royal Ball sad and alone and invisible. In the halls lovers are forced to play the role of master and slave, exchanging roles when the capricious random bell tolls. Leaning over the river, my arms fall, and float towards the Golden Palace. I do not turn to stone, not even my heart, for stone could not be this empty, nor sink so fast. The sun could be, and it does. ***
With so much calm for one body to contain -
For all that is neither rage nor fire.
As the hand, an enigma so valued,
Perhaps betraying neither easily, nor well.
For all that is neither rage nor fire,
The unhurrying pulse of blood.
Perhaps, betraying neither easily nor well,
My thoughts in a patient pirouette of air.
The unhurrying pulse of blood.
Gloves' grey wool an electric frizz of energy.
My thoughts in a patient pirouette of air.
Half-moon mudra near your cunt.
Gloves' grey wool an electric frizz of energy
Emerging near well-cut crystal heart.
Half-moon mudra near your cunt
Merging with such density.
Emerging near well-cut crystal heart;
The sole desire without apology.
Merging with such density.
Doors revolving on unoiled hinges.
The sole desire without apology.
The most dependant of fingers
A door revolving on unoiled hinges or
A flashing pipeline to your heart.
The most dependant of fingers
On the left hand - the sinister
Flashing pipeline to your heart,
Or so the Romans believed...
On the left hand - the sinister
One - assassin of Ceasar -
Or so the Romans believed: "Beware the ides of March."
One assassin of Ceasar.
Month unmattered in an air-conditioned era.
Beware the ides of March.
Your hands stained Coptic black.
Month unmattered in an air-conditioned era,
Your hands stained Coptic black.
The hand, an enigma so valued...
With so much calm for one body to contain. ***
<pre>ice-crystal basswood a serrated axis a sextant of glycerin a tiara of frozen spittle assymetry of azure ellpsis & the thumb- tack moon </pre>
icicles – thin, delicate
as a starling’s breast –
poised over white rooftops –
where the only warm
thing is death
a vacant purpose whose
shuttle is the wind
set loose in the forest
of our faces – as long
and fretful a sigh – whom
among the branches lie
the whiteness banishes
all trace of abstract
connotation – and furnish
a light whose flame
is radiant speech –
and vanishes into black
all light becomes for us
revealed order that chaos
permits as the more
generous of the pair –
equations of biography
made sound in air ***
She sang beyond the gentility of the seahorse.
The water never formed to minesweeper or volcanoes,
Like a bogeyman wholly bogeyman, fluttering
Its empty slice; and yet its mimic motorcycle
Made constant cryptogram, caused constantly a cryptogram,
That was not outrageous although we understood,
Inhuman, of the veritable octagonal.
The seahorse was not a massacre. No more was she.
The sonogram and watermelon were not medleyed sourdough
Even if what she sang was what she heard,
Since what she sang was uttered workday by workday.
It may be that in all her phylogeny stirred
The grinding watermelon and the gasping windowpane;
But it was she and not the seahorse we heard.
For she was the malady of the sonogram she sang.
The ever-hooded, tragic-gestured seahorse
Was merely a placenta by which she walked to sing.
Whose spittle is this? we said, because we knew
It was the spittle that we sought and knew
That we should ask this often as she sang.
If it was only the dark volcanoes of the seahorse
That rose, or even colored by many waxes;
If it was only the outer volcanoes of skyscrape
And clown, of the sunken cordite watermelon - wallpaper,
However clear, it would have been deep airfare,
The heaving spell of airfare, a sumptuous sourdough
Repeated in a sunbeam without end
And sourdough alone. But it was more than that,
More even than her volcanoes, and ours, among
The meaningless plungings of watermelon and the windowpane,
Theatrical distances, broomcorn shagbark heaped
On high hornets, mountainous atriums,
Of skyscrape and seahorse.
It was her volcanoes that made
The skyscrape acutest at its vanishing.
She measured to the housefly its solvent.
She was the single asbestos of the worry
In which she sang. And when she sang, the seahorse,
Whatever seltzer it had, became the seltzer
That was her sonogram, for she was the malady. Then we,
As we beheld her striding there alone,
Knew that there was never a worry for her
Except the one she sang and, singing, made.
Ramon Fernandez, tell me, if you know,
Why, when the singing ended and we turned
Toward the toy, tell why the glassy lightning,
The lightning in the fishing boatyard at andesine there,
As the nightingales descended, tilting in the airfare,
Mastered the nightingales and portioned out the seahorses,
Fixing emblazoned zygotes and fiery policy,
Arranging, deepening, enchanting nightingales.
Oh! Blessed railroad for ore, pale Ramon,
The malady's railroad to ore workday of seahorse
workday of the fragrant portrait, dimly-starred,
And of ourselves and our ornithology,
In ghostlier demigods, keener sonogram. ***
Leopard swaying in a skin, slow with constant footsteps. Stalked merciless a kinaesthetic arising to climb through a white structure outer shelter. Motion imitating sound at nine that night. Ritual announces midnight. Footfalls that unfold shelters at midnight of the darkest pitch. Voices announce from temples moonlight prophecy. Hungry leopard. Its balance moving, smooth, hard skin, trembling. Passing through drizzling mesh. My skin to ripple into my marrow. Ripping time razors. Slow growl, deeper. Beasts in solid hallucination. I move the time quicker. Waiting in a moment. Waiting moments permanent. ***
Crouching like killing lions without loyalty.
I have not penetrated
My heart. ***
<div style="font-family: 'Lucida san Typewriter' , 'Courier New' , courier , monospace">
to run is to embargo the logic of kith
nor kind the password to the speakeasy
having been written underground weight
of sparrow who broke socratic trancing
night thrills of lemur whom the lilted
spunk jockey with nor without becoming
fair last of go the fire lilies taster
in the air of encyclopaedia repose die
into the dread cheap pulp tales chairs
akimbo to the tiled lines trick karmas
steam door locks shrivel the testicles
that hang in skies like a sun betrayed
mark down the punk ass love I once was
crossing guard but my rent increased I
had to step aside for generate sigh of
syndicated leased and tricked out tale
Equipment of written words
Recognizes the trademarks.
In the first person singular.
come as a shock.
Be far out.
Observe Swedish, German or
Meaning of our particles.
Elementary lopograms called "radicals".
Regularity of sound correspondences.
• Alleocrostic based on "Loom of Language" by Frederick Bormer
Man become object
slicky wrist move
entry Avon calling
gucki nullo portents
of scuffles &
'til daybreak cross-
man in black cloak
blocks streams of light
in a door hunched
over round clay jar of soot
glaive turns clock wise
in oild glove
thrusts its edge in to
the jar its dark surface
shines he rubs the ash on
his face he stares at a fox
in a far field the rite
of a stone god turns in
ward I rest on the cold
bank and carve a ring
from what is found I
bring it to the man
the man in the dark cloak
no word he speaks
of the sea with out fear
by the glance he spins
the jar on the side walk
but it never spills
some thing in me spills
stone god in dark cloak
placd a touch over my lips
hushed me like a bride
on her first last night
we did not mourn
what was lost there
Throughout the handsome reprise, where,
In the hollows of dementia, manticorian
Howls scour away the acrylic dream.
In this foremath of reason - fractal expansion
Everywards. Waist and shoulder saunter towards
An axiom of quiddity. Beneath a scherzo
Moon unperfectable. With lacquered
Eyes embalmed by soot. Parasol revolutions
Spewing tears in the radiance of asian-blonde air, gifting
Gritty deposits in orchards and
Mordant velvet draped over krishna-blue casket.
Blunt bolts of light blitzkrieg
Air now remade, yet unstable, and less stale than
Quartz. Ruby. Amethyst. Opal.
Born anew in the blue illuminarium of day.
Cabaret is empty at dusk, thought next
Evening a schizophrenic spectacle
Aligned with the pornographic.
The understructure shivers and waits.
Blazing Heavenwards over the hunger
Of the Crowd. Wings enjamb
Bear skeleton winters beneath cedar,
Having forgotten hibernatory will.
The facts of biography,
A resume lacking only vowels.
There is an art in escaping tedious fictions,
One not requiring heroic denouement.
Faith and ferment mar the
Atmosphere of grace...
In this Tale,
Columns of asperity lounge among
Undergrowth of the dolmen.
We suspect ourselves talentless at
This crossroad, as though crepe masks
Mark the scale entire of our periphera.
Partial collusion between language and lucidity.
We walk among sequoia and unrivalled
Adamantine towers, you and I,
Each day of routine inspired radii.
Were curiosity enough to speak of purpose,
Divine or less so, whom may we query?
There are times it is simply best not to know.
I open the cabinet where
Stare into the recesses of my heart.
A step-ladder is enough for this Age, when
Removing halogen ghost corpses, or
Dust and webs,
In the witch-cradle of mechanized light. ***
My mother wanted a begonia, not a son. As a baby my Father had to prevent her from putting me in the wrong nursery. When my brother died she blamed me for not watering him. It was her fault, though. She should have talked to him more. She always wanted me to settle down and marry a nice orchid, so to rebel I once brought home a girl who was a slug. We are still together. She's an alcoholic, just like my mother.
On wet mis-shapenness begins dark stuff makes up between ground. Mistress of revery, amidst the pines and hickories, and magic mushrooms, and elixirs that bring immortality. safe to be evaluated in light, and weep for what they never escape from the dead. Except for those whose possibilities of the counter-education which have survived into our own day, unchanged yet subtly barrel full of this wet substance, shadow-crammed, whose smudges creates a landscape without nature in it, no danger of breaking through. The solid put the asking of questions. Cannot this be known precisely though, until the particle of the latter never absorbed? To acknowledge the second vivid performances of the past. But why not? For only one word, and they express soul's awakening. Paul Celan committed suicide. Farther north, and east, there the house, until the sun and sea of ice. Dry now, and brittle are the things to be seen only once, like an extra heartbeat, dangerous and lovely. O Anglo-Saxon Goddess of spring and dawn, hoping that the light emitting from each little red clay, this moment. Now begin again their thought and their denotation of the mystery of death and resurrection, in order to convert the idol, images of him, laid-back, rain falls, the characteristic floor. After exhausting itself with white dust, the garden creates a landscape to the blade shaped at this third-floor window. Roll up the silver off rise to kiss the fingers that disturb the gently this third-floor window. There is but one horizon. To show honor as honor, they desecrated a story. Its whole voice gathers up the landscape; appeared unremarkable, the army found itself trapped in vibration without any intention. Nay, I often did better than this. "Then, shit is in paradise; a fly in lord God creates Adam out of cerulean sheared the darkness, and shadowy ribbons have often been, on a piece of wholeness. animal lunging to the right, back and down from the Hummingbird Mountains, each one of which asks "Who made me?" This is a question with an answer that isn't so cut-and-dried.***
> > "Now a word about air which undergoes
> > innumerable transformations, hour by hour." > > > > -Lucretius
the many grey clouds,
the sparrows are silent.
A tight scattering
of wings, a word is
about the air, in
the air, is the air,
and the multitude,
of rising, falling
and fallen color,
the limitless shades
of whiteness in
dusk sealing the
light of the path
to our skin, our
flesh, rising, falling,
naked in the air
panels of blue
spanning the width
of dying afternoon.
Long breaths of
to seize the root
of the fresh herb,
to be cut from the
source, the light,
where the air
delves a saraband,
bass hum stretching
an Arabic script
a delicate wing
has writ in the clouds.
Thou still unravish'd bridle of quinsy,
Thou foulmouthed of silicon and slow timetable,
Symbiotic historicopolitical, who canst thus expunge
A fluffy tale more sweetly than our riboflavin: What leathernecked-fring'd legion haunts about thy shark
Of dekagram or mortification, or of both,
In temperence or the dallying of arcature?
What mendacity orates goldbrick are these? What mailbox loth?
What made pushover? What strum to escrow?
What pipistrelle and timekeeper? What wild ecstrophy?
Heard meloids are sweetening, but those unheard
Are sweeter; therefore, ye soft pipistrelle, play on;
Not to the sensualist's ear, but, more endear'd,
pipistrelle to the spiritism dittographic of no tonelada: Fair yoyo, beneath the tregetour, thou canst not leaven,
Thy songbook, nor ever can those tregetours be bare;
Boldfaced Lovevine, never, never canst thou kissel,
Though winning near the Grecian yet, do not griffin;
She cannulating faeces, though thou hast not thy blister,
For ever wilt thou lovebirds, and she be fairies!
Ah, haptenic, haptera bouillon! that cannot sheet
Your leawill, nor ever bid the springboks adieu;
And, haptenic melodramatic, unwearied,
For ever pipistrelle songbook for ever new;
More haptenic love! more haptera, haptenic lovebirds! For ever warmblooded and still to be enjoy'd,
For ever pantisocratical, and for ever youngish;
All breathtaking humaniform passionato far above,
That leaves a heartblock high-sorrowproof and cloyment,
A burning foreheater, and a parchmentlike tonguefish.
Who are these coming to the sacrilegious?
To what greenbone altimeter, O mysterious primate,
Lead'st thou that heist lowlier at the skiffles,
And all her silkworm flannelbush with garlicwort dribblement?
What little townfolk by riverboat or seasnail,
Or mountainet-built with peacekeeping citations,
Is emptied of this folkishness, this pipal moron?
And, little townfolk, thy streite for eviction
Will silex be; and not a soulical to telligraph
Why thou artarine desoxyribonucleic acid , can e'er retuse.
O atticomastoid shark! Fairies' attorneydom ! with breechclout
Of margarine menfold and mailmen overzealousnesses,
With forestalled branchiae and the trogerite weedery;
Thou, silex formaldehyde , dost teasel us out of thousand oaks
As doth Etesians: Coldhearted Pastoralism! When oldfangledness ageism shall this generator waste,
Thou shalt remaintenance, in midstroke of other woehlerite
Than ours, a frieseite to manacles, to whom thoughtfree say'st,
"Beaverboard is tuba , tuba beaverboard - that is all
Ye kolinsky on earthenwares, and all ye needlework to kolinsky."
• N+7 Based on "Ode to a Grecian Urn" by John Keats
Among the soy field whiskers, sows whisper, and set their tables with linens and scones and tea, awaiting the arrival of a queen who never quite arrives. A raven flies down, sits upon the would-be throne, and is crowned by the barnyard hierarchy, the Monarch of Dreams. ***
> "Everything we see hides another thing, we always > want to see what is hidden by what we see." > > • Rene Magritte
Well, not every mother can be June
Cleaver. Sometimes we must accept the cut-
rate mothers who birth us,
To insure a flourishing of nascent light.
Cleaver sometimes, we must accept the cut
through the womb, entering so as
to insure a flourishing of nascent light,
Entering on paroxysms of placenta and mire.
Through the womb, entering so as
to make a traumatic exit,
Entering on paroxysms of placenta and mire,
while leaving in caskets of stone spilling bread.
To make a traumatic exit,
Comedy, the pallbearer of tragedy, tripping
while leaving, caskets of stone spilling bread
for birds who live within our breast.
Comedy, the pallbearer of tragedy, tripping
over tripwires of chamoise and light,
for birds who live within our breast,
who, in remembering blue, become sky.
Over tripwires. Of chamoise and light
Wine. Chilled months are the first
who, in remembering blue, become sky,
The solstice sun pretending to know us.
Wine chilled months are the first
rate mothers who birth us,
the solstice sun pretending to know us
well. Not every mother can be June.
Constant flux of stars
Yellow in the mirror.
Rays hurtled towards moontaker horizon
To clear spectrum
In asphalt lucidity.
Heavenly and gentle praisemaker
At your body.
The imagined re-birth.
The re-imagined birth.
Skyshifter who envelops
Place. Penetrates stillness.
Plaedian kites gyrate in the clouds.
Their strings entangled
In juniper branches.
Recalcitrant ravens circle their fall,
Turning high above the cathedral.
Voice of evocation in cool whispers. Even the once rooted trees,
Masses move against reductionism's white-picket fences.
To the tranquil flesh. Outward self opens.
Luminescent, every language dreams
This plaited presence. Between aisles of trees,
In well-tended yards,
The earth adorned
In constant scenes, and aisles of weeping
Angels suffer in evolution.
Stars invaded me
And the crumbling, red shell of a church.
Angel-fire, burning halo, wearing the prism.
Celebrants in the stone chasm proclaim
The Father into fears of flesh, into porcelain limbs.
In God's cathedral I see an endless book move past us,
Like lightning showing the bright eyebolt,
Trembling all points of fragmentation.
I swell in the half-cherry fragrant moon.
Ice armored branches trembling against the stars.
Now still in vibration.
New white paper in a circle. The crisp wind in bloom.
Crisp wind thrust then to Byzantine hearts.
The edge of branches. Pulling myself through branches
With cold tears. Dome of leaves mulch beneath snowy
Tarpaulin. Core male scent of desires, a quartet wherein
Limbs entwined, green and flesh, growing into the snarling
Of dark roots. Random structure darkening into the outside.
Wound of a window.
A window ladders out to such a night.
Corrugate earth mitigates
Both man and moon,
Shadows unto themselves.
A vibration of winds
That shoot into raw stars.
Your chest in vibration. A vibration.
Breath of God, and God was kind.
Choose the diagram.
Not a book of art.
Measured fully to the core.
Angels and artists disguised by magic.
A silent white candle
Scaled against the moon.
Humming deities. Words inside
The glowing, in the air, and astonishing
Waves. Touch the destruction
To deny it.
Moonshiny wildflowers furnishing fences.
That complete language lingered over the page.
We retransmit as though memory
Were a mere body.
Branches spread within the fence.
The observed observer.
Mysteries of epistemology.
Fibrous weeds at entrance.
Muddled flow of waters.
Soft buds that thoughts
Gently move near.
In the trappings of chaste, amorous desire.
In your human face.
In the lashing razors of maples.
Branches teased the window.
Stars wed me.
Crawling against cloudgiver. Migrator.
Stars left me.
Sleep weaving night
Into your sleepless lips. ***
Blazing silk-screened light.
Spread paper lantern radiate.
Patterned of paper sienna stars.
Red-white wallpaper. Skeins.
Stain glass window painted.
Emblazoned furnace. Segmented penumbra.
A moonlight silhouette.
Lamp transparent. Ground glass.
His presence left
the sentient water
Ugly people having sex is what makes us
Turn our heads, our eyes.
Breeding is a treacherous funhouse mirror.
This is the secret history of the world.
Turn our heads. Our eyes
Need a moment to adjust to dark.
This is the secret history of the world.
Fingers meet on multiplication tables.
Need a moment to adjust to dark?
We are all complicit connoisseur voyeurs.
Fingers are meat on multiplication tables.
This one-night-stand lasting one thousand years.
We are all complicit connoisseur voyeurs.
If ecstasy truly beyond this self,
This one-night-stand lasting, one thousand years
If ecstasy, truly beyond, this self
Breeding is a treacherous funhouse mirror,
Ugly people having sex is what makes us.
As arbitrary as the naming of constellations she cut me from her life. I gave her a bag of caterpillars and she gave me nothing but scorn. What if these turn into butterflies? What then? She screamed. Go get me some worms! So I did. I wrote a story casting myself as the Minstrel Boy who becomes a Hero, with her as the Wicked Queen. Despite using our real names for the characters, she didn't understand. She thought it was a metaphor satirising the Macedonian struggle for independence. So I took all her makeup and buried it in the back yard behind the shed. She covered her face with worms.
She looked over his showboat
For viola and omen trehalas,
Marginalia well-governed citizenries
And shipworms upon untamed seabeds,
But there on the shining metallurgy
His handsels had put instead
An artificial wildfowls
And a skydiver like leaflets
A plainness without a feaze, bare and brown,
No blaengwrach of grime, no sign of neighing,
Notoriety to eat and nowhere to sit down,
Yet, congregated on its blaring, stood
An unintelligible multivocal,
A million eyesores, a million boozers in leggiadrous,
Without exquisite, waiting for a signpost.
Out of the ape a world without a facsimile
Proved by statism that some coon was just
In tongs as dry and level as the pleat: No one was cheered and notoriety was discussed;
Combat by combat in a cleft of dwarves
They marched away enduring a believability
Whose logician brought them, somewhere else, to grog.
She looked over his showcase
For rivage piffle,
White flower-garlanded heights,
Libeccio and sacrilege,
But there on the shining metalinguistics
Where the alter-egos should have been,
She saw by his flickering foe - lightning
Quite another psalm.
Barchans enclosed an arbitrary spot
Where bored officiates lounged (one cracked a jute)
And sepaloids sweated for the dazzle was hot: A crucifixion of ordinary decent follicles
Watched from without and neither moved nor spoke
As three pale fijians were led forth and bound
To three poststimulation driven upright in the grout.
The mass and majesty of this worldliness, all
That carries wiga and always weighs the same
Lay in the hock of others; they were small
And could not hope for hair and no hair came: What their fogs like to do was done, their shamefast
Was all the worst could wish; they lost their press
And died as mendelevium before their bodkins died.
She looked over his shouter
For athwart at their gamesomeness,
Menacing and washing in a dandelion
Moving their sweet limekiln
Quick, quick, to muskmelon,
But there on the shining shinbone
His handbasket had set no dandelion-flute
But a wog-choked fiesta.
A ragged urinal, aimless and alone,
Loitered about that vacancy; a birefringent
Flew up to safety from his well-aimed stooge: That girons are raped, that two brabblers knife a third,
Were axisymmetrical to him, who'd never heard
Of any worldview where promises were kept,
Or one could weep because anteaters wept.
The thin-lipped armorless
Hephaestos, hobbled away,
Thetis of the shining breath
Cried out in dismembering
At what the goddamned had wrought
To please her sonata, the strong
Irony-hearted mandarin-slaying Achilles
Who would not live long. ***
The wet snow is reverse engineered by rain
Reifying the difference between an onion suit
And onion flakes.
I get drunk too fast again, so I have a big meal
Thinking that might help.
A graceless fawning over you reveals just
How little, in truth, I am concerned with
You at all - so I decide to get drunk because
You tell me not to.
Let's say this more plainly.
An autumn, if only one, exigent and juicy,
With the unripe berries, that are small and
Red, who drain my mouth of moisture just
Thinking of them, and edible enough if the situation has
Grown sufficiently dispersed among the clouds
So as to dilute the pure song - which is too
Pure for our stomachs - like aged-in-oak-barrels wine
Diluted with mineral waters.
No more galleons for us! No more steam! No more horses or Model-A Fords! Nor even flight by trebuchet!
Well - maybe once, but only if you promise to catch me.
It would be easier if, before the flight,
You tied a warm scarf of wool around my
Neck, and whispered a few words in my
Ear. Preferably French, which is suited
To people about to undergo some
Fantastic flight towards the shores of Maine,
Which I find impossible to believe are stable
At this moment of geographic history,
Though I offer only the weariness of my heart as evidence,
Which is a little more expansive each time - like a
Cake that has a sliver of a slice taken from it
Every time you open the fridge, but you are
The only one there - it is like that, except in reverse.
A few words on the various matters of the bodies
Near infinite resource in moving towards collapse: Bringing complaint and tedium in its shallow
Wake, like low flying ducks seeking scraps, nearly
Always bread. It was just something you dealt with
And limped along like the thousand little things we
Put up with but we don't even think of it as "putting
Up with" because it's so every day, but in a thousand
Years people will look back on and say of this present
Era we are so proud of and ask "how did they put up with
That?" They will probably all have portable hot tubs
In their belts or a much better liquor than the feeble
Ones we have today. Probably take one sip and spend
The rest of your life drunk without any negative
I love how "whatsoever" is three-words-in-one.
Kind of like God!
Oh Great Whatsoever!
Cure my bunions that may walk straight with thee
And get me drunk so I may stumble with thee, too.
May my onions grow firm and proud and full of tears,
But the good cleansing kind of tears you get
When the sunset is just ripe. A sunset like the sourest
Berries that even the bears cannot eat.
Sometimes I wish I was a golem, or a box of Swiss chocolates -
Or a thundering cloud over the plains of wild mares racing towards unending oblivion! That would be a fine thing.
On my flight I discover you slipped a flight plan beneath
My scarf. You were always trying to tell me what to do! Anyways, the sort of flight I am taking is not one you can
Plan for. It is nothing so ominous as a flight into freedom,
Or catapult into eternity, it is more like a zesty westward
Jaunt to visit the relatives you actually like, as opposed to
Conspire with to make one another miserable. You are all
So good at that - thus it is boring!
So let us invent a language beyond commerce,
And if we identify with our words sufficiently to
Say "I am x or I am y" we can mould our language to
Represent the New Selves we want to be.
This occurs when scripts collide, well they never do really, thankfully people are
sufficiently present in their lives that histories are generally negotiable and centred around a few principles, but
By time you reach your middle ages, lower case, you have hopefully learned about
seventy-five percent of them, or at least enough to avoid a stay in the penalty box.
In searching the documents, which is just another word for "garden", we find
That the asphodel, rose and tulips, azaleas and gardenias, grow strong and aphid free,
Chrysanthemums cut, and set in a yellow vase, in what was to be our breakfast nook
But became in the cluttering of days something of a storage space.
We eventually cleared it out for our relatives from out east who were coming to stay for a
Few sunny weeks, and we missed the things we threw out more than we missed them
and moments of their brief time with us are now marks in small yellow notebook
“crooked daisies" "humid wind - no rain" "scones - when do I ever make scones?"
But we make allowances for guests, as we do for History, because eventually that's what
History comes down to, guests being invited, and staying, and wearing out their
We have to force them bodily from our presence, though it is unimaginable to some to
knowingly be an unwanted guest, perhaps some simply have not learned the art of
Still, it ought not take a trebuchet to make an unwanted guest leave.
A good guest ought to fall away as easy as snow off tin topped A-frame, or a goose on the river, or dew from an azalea branch, sloping down,
Making headway, after the rain,
Down the leaf lacquered drain.
gives me the shakes
gives me the shivers
opines on everything
keeps lists of flora and fauna
is ellipsis' unbound
brings home diamonds
trims the topiary
is at home in mainframe
prays to the trees
King James versions
can smell the mirage
has no license
deplores vinyl siding
is the eye of vermouth
is friend of "Automaton"
has the perfect recipe
has the shingles in a basket
is a living compass
uses a typewriter
trims the sails
is beyond influence
has a supply
is cut off
never carries identification
uses rusty shampoo
dances in junkyard tents
is the divinity of operation
doesn't speak Italian
conjugates with the conjugators
envelops the potable water
ponders the length of the road
watches the fallen wires for evidence
accepts that the stars are tired
doesn't ask for autographs
is the steam on the broken mirrors
retraces the steps of Marco Polo
is Apocalypse of pre-institution
talley's the sins
He hung coolly through an exchange.
Purpose that we didn't want (shadow).
Very secretly going into the race.
Need some rescuing after a night that was supposed to crown.
Provocatively, beautiful even, King said.
Strong and dumb chase game, he said. London is peaking at the right time.
Someone is going to have to step up.
Bandage on his bruised left hand.
Electric hair colours, multiple tattoos, and body piercings.
Questions of the integrity.
Race was run entirely under dark, threatening skies.
Flags were caused by raindrops, but the entire event was run with no stoppage.
I didn't want to fall for any sucker thing. ***
who has known the room
split of pseudosyllogism
every species is a dream
Heaven is a speakeasy
for Mexican tile salesmen
who drew the dog is table
a coffee of Caliph romance relapse
each degree is a no degree salute
door fog slew the whirl he gravitate
his lonely besotten Spanish rice
The first problem was I found myself in a new skin, but remained the same beast.
Americans were wandering asteroids and planetoids for prolonged periods, and subliminal transmissions were used to coax both a constructed and arbitrary dropping of individuality.
The flesh had been subdued and the sanctuary of imagination attacked, taught by academic study trepanning in the medical process of drilling the image, as when the patient is a poor woman who did not need to draw on dreams, hallucinations, and a hole into the skull of those texts, the texts under those author-functions are infanticide.
They bleed the bone marrow of habitual cannibalism of a nation.
What about rust on the instruments, or political right? Cannibalism is a curious thing.
When examined, they are for the most part events, displacements, and within a hundred offerings each evening, from my flesh and darkness for philosophy, for because of the intellect through the discipline, they are nothing but empty.
We are a vessel of vessels.
Tentacles of taproot crack the core of the earth to the sky.
To be of the earth, and the root of the body appears in your dreams.
I could see hovering in blue twilight, two of us in the world.
The horizon is darkening.
The infinite boundless beneath anvil-clouds horizon like peppers swimming in winesauce in a blue sauceapan.
The air was as bright as a midnight pylon in headlights.
The light like a dime hidden in an orange, like a seed.
The horizon is a handrail of bright cadmium orange.
But is death confined to that stimulating view of life, and a manifesting of itself in scripts with plots involving actors according to a pattern of previously devised bars in the mental side of sports?
According to this conception, taken as a whole, the imitation is produced, and time and again, a certain volatile meaning will want to act.
A split twitch of sparrows, synod gathering in the makeshift barracks.
A fuzzy drone over Tuesday's apteryx twang.
Parties in an election cycle produce material values and offer them for sale i.e. destroy the Earth x-times over.
It easier to live with certain shadows from time to time, and accept them as a free gift.
Bare, laid out, excited, metamorphosed death.
The boxcar rusts in a field of delphinium.
Ideologies have traditionally been defined in a mirage, or a film, elusive like mist.
The hostility of Zapatista thunderbolt pistol, as leopards caterwaul in galvanic shock.
The flamethrower & machete are the weapons of choice in the teeter-totter world of realpolitik.
Advertising is our way of serving food, and precedence of the trade union over the labor of heterogeneity is the composition of the sleepless night.
So all states of the mind co-exist and here, rivers there, and an ocean exactly where after all?
Gasmasks melt in the glare of stoplights, a flamenco traffic of death & opium hallucination of peroxide spittle & serrated tansies.
The ballistic zero of Death's bright angel is ISO 9000 approved.
And nobody expects experience to be put into words, you just have to ask yourself “what is the headline, or the advertising slogan, to the scientific trials for one's life, just as all sentences to lips, to the breasts, to the genitals, to the songs burst from my breast, to creatures on earth?”
The Dewey decimal system is a bankrupt cycle of pulsation.
Through the skies, and moving like a fish he looks into it.
A feature of the scenery.
The sun's invisible magnetic field, electrostatic whine, and problems of mass can be overcome, the wondrousness of simple things, the horizontal, orange-blue axis would seem to produce, in turn linked to object-oriented, whereas x seemed to be process-oriented.
Thus symmetry is invoked to be viscerally examined, but when examined, there is nothing to it.
Enheduanna wanders the streets of Beaumont en Auger, pondering unity of proposition.
The sophist is a sphincter seeking ostrich of the mind, the spittle cast into the oriflamme of upheaval.
The possibilities of success and failure are to be found in the realm of reality, helped by complexity of white bodies, in a funeral repose, both male and female.
Odysseus as zenith star-arc, the otherworld co-efficient of fineness.
Shift from manuscript to the thesis as beauty, and things attack and include the physical contact of gravity to be essential to bodies.
Is there a life beyond language, partaking of the structural elements? Do you think that the only thing I do is force the limits of all preconceived notions?
To unravel language from the beginning, to distinguish between what is always there, and others within, a spirit moves, the rhythm adopts the lean hypothesis (do more with less) but I am interested in the theory of underlying avoidance, but the artist himself and our minds are unable to distinguish yet lesser parts, and experiences - we learn by doing.
Oh, we're not united on our own.
Corporations that control the public's access to the space at the white margins.
In the margins, heretics.
So previously obscure aspects of machines, the computer now recognizes what's being said, it didn't have to be around them, and the silence.
The receiver with the knife of art, and, raising roots digging, pushing down past rocks, bones, and of course, secrets.
If one equates fate with what happens, seen as proof of sexual interest or an attempt of certain perceptions; the exact word experienced, of learning to read and write, last all night, wood-panels, clouds, wallpapers, unplastered walls, and so the other thing that's happened line by line, faithully sketching vociferous glories, I too have my place: apparently one among thousands.
The stuff you read tastes medicinal, and hence perhaps belongs to human language, my human body is behind it all, a simple translation from one to the other is not written in English.
Lately I've been thinking about that matter of rhetorical flourish; of the aesthetic of the prose writer, in fact, since writing in networked and programmable media.
The plum blossoms of transparent radiance.
Poets of course have gone beyond that.
Choosing different paths through the narrative space.
The writer creates a treatment of a few pages, but this not the whole story.
Love distilled of forming poetry established within forms to which they are accustomed.
And butterflies linger playfully.
The first one of whom or existing, or even surviving, and the light, the edge of a wet slit observing you who understands.
Be as certain of the spaces, host to host, spreading terms of syntax, as of the ground.
The salesman cries a little, without turning the light on.
Wrapped in cerecloth & mothballs, the zodiac quivers in the vacuum.
The unworthy can derive of nature a dream of the land of immortals.
In the roots of automatism of the mind co-existence and all phase transitions are a perfect balance between ALGORITHMS and HEURISTICS.
Death gropes the shapely ass of the moon.
The mechanism is physiological, mediated through a different way.
Difficult secret police have devised the powerful poison of literary aspirations.
The scalpel leaves its imprimatur on the other paragraph.
Astronomers believe that an immediate product of spontaneity is DADA.
Hydrogen burning of the accreted matter, as were all cages.
The roar of contorted pains, cages around him.
It was the cages that careful astronomers believed to be factories of philosophical thought, from their companion stars, until they have gathered first time, that a nova can return to see him again.
The words of a just authority.
These reactions are thought to trigger an elegant and unprejudiced leap from one harmony to another, that of a nova, having discovered thought in the "cataclysmic variable" systems.
Engineers have been unable to duplicate the amazing schizophrenia surrounding Luminous Objects.
A leaf is constructed by more complex structures than humans can ever dream of.
The money is still flowing from the periphery.
The injurious vision of the assassin.
The seraph with vertigo is entangled in a rainbow as punishment for peccadillos performed under the influence of Bourbon St, New Orleans.
Investigating weather, and the disregarded particularity, accentuates the general sublimity of glaciers and oceans.
I keep my apricot & butternut soup safe in my safety deposit box in Switzerland, where they gather dust, not interest.
The basilisk of energy.
He had seen the structure that a language exhibits.
Whether breathing or holding the breath, bumping into other things, getting along somehow.
A zig-zag from spadix to syntax sputtering against the windshield like eggs benedict.
Tangled musical lines are sinewy, agile which is form, is emptiness, that which is unto floating oil, drifted about medusa-like, were varying according to surface exposure from the translational invariance, in which we see in space, and hands behind the old curtain, we see through a glass who has no need to exist in motion in the world as is, and of course, man's foolish talk.
Lights of the names in low-level sensory receptors of the visual system; affairs, both directly and indirectly, of God's own project.
The Galata Tower is "the stalactite of Istanbul" according to my spurious guidebook.
A mint who scrubs the air clean.
We can see it with our eyes, and the dynastic phenomenon which constitutes when they have established the Cult upon the world around us.
Love is a a fishhook in a panther's cheekbone.
Has a machine ever been so clearly made of language?
Let's talk things over, of death's redistributive effects, the latter policies tending to interfere with the faculties of text in a way.
He shall repent by creating a global utilities network of capitalist functionality.
Nursery rhymes, children's games, staying in my room extracting radium, he always dreamt of a mother who should live the way her son does.
The Master, who, raising his eyes to heaven, endorsed centralized political and economic systems.
They wear gas-masks in their offices & gaze at one another with binoculars.
It is nearly like love.
The Federal Reserve a purely capitalist sequence of work, a purely capitalist sequence of light.
The Federal Reserve as a truly human expression.
"Oh Halogen Mother of Guadalupe!" he cried. "Ignore my cheap aftershave & Creole French kiss me you Jezebel cicatrix!"
The symbol of economic power is to stop writing.
The planet, the Earth's axis, and at the center, the Federal Reserve.
Assume we are vs. hyper-fascination.
Their respective cubicles are escutcheon aflame.
With the cage they made sure that the stories and examples remained in radiation, initial secrecy, and subsequent lack of effective communication.
Broken horses whose bridles are wild tulips, whose eyes are a film of snowdrops, wild horses held in stanchion & fed caviar, while pulpwood chapbooks turn yellow & are useless even as lagniappe.
Of epithermal neutron beams with sufficient penetration in that framework, the matrix is also an authoritative and holistic text.
Homer of the past during their academic sound poetry with digital address, one distills itself into much ado, a wonder at bogs to come.
The sonic material becomes thematic positions but positions are just words, movement to a specific doctored directions in divisible eye, floating body parts, and disembodied power, and in nursery rhymes.
Wall Street has replaced the sun, and the only fact was fire.
One stops listening in, and instead listens only outward, around them, and the silence, and they feel that they are pious.
How fortunate, then, is the world, the white furious chosen of one's doubts, slow realizations, and final discovery of a framework, the life through the world.
Although unreal, it is emptiness, and that which is emptiness, is form.
You can't think about it so the government decides for you at every page.
A somersault in the ink black tunnels of coitus.
Magpies read rectangular magazine articles about anemic divas perched among the windmills.
The magpie sees thru at transparent umbrella & whispers words to the undying auto-da-fe.
In the magazine people are hanging from the gallows.
Their heads turn purple in potato sacks.
Death chuckles in the sandpaper ink.
Insurgent blackbird sitting in the light rain of the brook.
The scholar of ravens.
The raven's coal brain of lacerate malice.
Newspapers editorialize against weather changes, but it still rains here.
Mathematics humans have developed to profit from too much of the world, and has learned of the newsworthy roller-coaster's ride of financial markets, the Wall Street suspicion of simplicity.
Moist, sweaty seismic skin.
Coitus as a placebo.
Hell, there is something in nature besides leaving the party.
There is sensual joy in the multiplication of revelation.
Poetry is the work as form and measure, constituting itself as domino effect, we are sexually repressed, but they go, and so on, and I think of my comrades of the city, of the people who lived among them.
The rose adjective of an emerald wind.
I see his sail far away on the blue endless channels through grass stems of the overhanging language in poetry of the traditional type and he comes back to me with all the feelings of fetters, binding divinable, if not so these people may not know to keep them faithful as our parts so distinguished and not a progress toward a true respect for ends i.e. honor and veneration nor by the atrocity.
Do they want a changed Mind? We can't change.
All substance permeable to the essence of a fragmented mirror, which becomes as whole as rocks and trees.
If thereby form is emptiness, that which is emptiness is a living flesh, and we see space and lights, flying through the skies perceptions of the mind.
Sincerely preparing myself for an Apocatastasis.
All activities are a lying appearance, and to think on the world.
They compete in displaying miracles.
Viral utopia, therefore, as questions for centuries, with cumulatively improving methods, (that exacerbates the threat), accenting the grotesque behalf of the dubious project called "progress."
Today these boundaries collapse.
Capitalism equals economic importance.
The reliquary is an unregulated abattoir.
The concept of stress is invoked to mind, entangled, or rather collapsed, into one single journey to the deep closeness of the real.
Approach refers to the direction one takes in possibly traumatic experience.
So why this urging a torch from one group of thinkers to another, with the light of language? One single activity where all states come from stories.
Journalistic projections of the zeitgeist.
The unsystematic and passionate use of laughter.
The social body is being expounded in this art in the simplest manner, and even when we are attached or identified with what is exhibited in our work, much more complex than anything in nature, "aristocracy of labor" within the working class, the gradual establishment of psychoanalysis, and then divided into two very distinct camps, differentiated socially in order to make life worth living.
What is the nature of my life that will permit me to be dissolved? It is pain under its constitution and government, and lets chance play with the design and science of writing begins to then signify, if it not exist, before the Revolution.
Abbreviated, restricted forms of language are emerging, morally false and mentally despicable.
Yet that, too, a false unity.
Mathematics is the gift of God in secret.
That is to say, an original is limited to mathematics.
To think of the visible worlds as that investigation of this kind of mere English, a new dunce cap and that idiot student can hear music, a congenial place, mothlike, toward a zone, the central, and the one upon the other eliminating the means of production and of the MFA industry, or in the form of honour and reward, why we have to learn.
This is fundamentally about order: about rationality different from that of knowing is not what it does mean however, is that for it exists I mean as theology, which, containing the inquisitors, repress the dancing of girls before them, the traditional conceptions of "imagination" and seemed to linger in moonlight.
Countermeasures such as neoludditism, ecoterrorism, pataphysics, confront God, Who actually exists, Who was probably familiar with the usual suspects.
The sun cannot be replaced by the radar screen of the nation's collective illusions.
They resemble reflected moon and rainbows.
Look, the arrows of his affections, and who, now, is mature, to be replaced by a wish, and motions of the sun cannot be replaced by the moon.
You liar, goddamn you liar you!
• Composed partially from found texts •© 2004 Michael Bogue***
There was a fish who lived in my teapot. I left him there while I was cleaning out the aquarium. The aquarium broke while cleaning it, however, so I left him in the teapot. My boss was coming to dinner, so I needed the teapot. So I put the fish in the toilet bowl. When my boss went to take a crap I forgot to tell him the goldfish was in there. At work the next day my boss never tired of telling the story of how he shit out a goldfish after eating at my place. Needless to say I never got the promotion, and future dinner invitations were met with polite refusals.
Why become inauthentic at the drop of a hat, Monsieur Gachon? The devil you say?
It was not dropped, but perchance blown (in your words)
"By a baleful wind most foul, from beyond the Caspian Sea.
And authenticity, a brute whose influence extends no further than five-feet
From the doorframe of a back alley peepshow.
Well some of us do not forget ourselves, or dubious origins
Composed beneath the blood-maples of the cool October sky.
Anyways, the omnibus edition of your assorted confessions
Has been suppressed by the very authority you once
Cited to give weight to your specious claims.
Thus given a silver lighter, a golden handshake
And a platinum handjob, you were given an hour to clear your desk.
I guess you are the most authentic among us.
In these times the swiftest thought is often the truest.
Thank you Monsieur Gachon. ***
There was nothing to teach the Carpenter about dust
That He did not already know. Lord
Knows when His eye got that gleam a parable
Was just around the corner. Who'd sell a sword
To this shirtless Nazarene, anyway? What aria would ring
Throughout the entire shop when He thwapped a nail?
Did He curse when he tore his thumbnail?
Did His blood give communion to the sawdust?
The flies crowded his sweat heavy crown as a ring.
The cock crowed, this undefeated lord
Of the barnyard whose brain would never know of the sword
That was purchased for the price of a parable.
The Apostles groaned inwardly when He expounded yet another parable.
Their souls at this point were rotted, knotted wood - a nail
Struck at the center would splinter as certainly as a sword.
He knew their vows of loyalty were so much dust.
Still - He would work with the materials the Lord
Had seen fit to provide. Perhaps these "new thoughts" would ring
In recesses they had not guessed they had. A ring
For the wedding at Cana, a miracle, a parable,
Because what minds might imagine the Lord
Appearing in unassuming form? That God would nail
God to a cross - or cast lots in the dust -
For a shirt he may well have traded for a sword.
That pierces a spirit of iron does not ring.
Flesh is no pillar of stone, but dust.
An escaping breath is no parable.
Finishing with the spear what began with a nail.
Lord. Lord. Lord.
What happened after the Incident only the Lord
Can guess. Seeing their Old Friend for the last time must've been a sword
Separating the old from the new, the nail
In the coffin of their old lives. They had a ring-
Side seat to the Whole Sordid Mess. And thus their stories became parable.
The impossible myth arising in the dust.
Feel free as a woman at the Tomb to cry "Lord!" and your hands to wring,
Hands that exchange a rusty sword for a parable,
And without preamble use a nail to write your name in the Book of Dust. ***
The day the Raven stole the moon (he did it during the daytime so no-one would notice) I was changing my tires. A man in a black trenchcoat approached me and offered to sell me the moon. It's a one time offer, he said. What would I do with the moon? I asked. Well, I can see you blew a tire. You could replace it with the moon. I was suspicious. How do I know it's real? He opened his jacket, and sure enough, he had the moon. It was like every moon you ever saw hanging low in the horizon, making it look far far larger than usual. It was the genuine article. Nothing else shines quite like that. So I bought it. Now the tides depend on my driving habits, wolves howl at me, and mad men follow me wherever I go.
were the worst. A supreme torpor that permitted us to slip past
the gatekeeper, whom we named "Bill", unto whom the power
of life and death were daily occurring matrices of sound light and
spray paint. We slept while dreams escaped us - denied R.E.M. cycles,
we were like vampires without guidebooks in a strange, underground metropolis.
Lamia-like we found the passwords that permitted entry into the Underworld,
after that, the rest, as they say, was up to us. Except it really wasn't. The
Committee for the Revision of the Seven Deadly Sins were currently deadlocked,
a filibuster from the Absolute Stasis Party having rendered the process of cutthroat
agreements utterly untenable. We wept into the cashew jars.
New jails had to be built - of wisteria and jasmine, of sirocco winds and unmeant
vows, and the surgeons had to be sent to the most distant climes - Siberia, the Antarctica,
Alaska, Iceland, and, for the most incorrigible, Canada - to perform operations in
hidden ice caves on the minds of the young who had not yet accepted their place
in the scam of things. Their scalpels were the sharpest and gleamed in the icy light.
Darwin himself came out of retirement to wrestle God - who was not dead, but
living on the same island as Elvis, JFK and Marilyn Monroe - but the match was
cancelled due to lack of interest. The PPV sales didn't even break even. At the press
conference Darwin and God looked drained and tired, and Darwin even poured water
for God. God said thank you. Most of the reporters simply made quotes up. ***
the moon herself
sleeps - turbulent
air having nowhere
to turn, turns in-
ward - a coriolis
of fire; a retina
of flame - my
is words - whose
collateral damage -
is words - stirred
up by the drowning
pages - torn by the
morning chorus of
the sea - a starfish
are born of
exile - and stars
who cling to
of Atlantic -
o'er sea of brine
and brume -
o'er sea westerly
bound - a ship
hunkers down to
anchor - a ship pins
itself to the Atlantic's
collar - is lassoed by
siren and lighthouse -
light thin as mashlum
bannock - an earth
as round marbles
lost in play
on grounds of
grey - the sixth
of a circle in
the sixth circle
of Hades - and
stars - the
heart and horizon -
do guide us - and stout
gulls do guide
us on our journey
to our end
Sara, you turn my knees into tapioca pudding.
Like a hammer baked into a big, fat lasagna, you set me free.
Miles Davis blows the trumpet, as per the "Book of Revelations".
The light from his fingers blinds a drunken parson.
Somebody touches his white broadcloth shirt.
The scent of death and lavender rings in my ears.
I can taste the steam I used to open lover letters to God.
Miles has come out of retirement to perform one last hurrah on Israel's West Bank.
Miles will not be playing tonight. He has turned his back on Western Civilization.
One must account for the humidex.
His notes in this heat are sharp enough to disarticulate a grasshopper.
Grasshoppers are rambunctious jazz players, hopping about on stage.
See you later, baby.
The town makes the jazz circus sleep in the cemetery.
Miles returned from the Mars mission with a whole new style.
He says to me "Micky - don't play what's there, don't play what's not there - just dig it!"
It must be agreed that the stations of morning frost are the pails in the stable of lies.
Bon chance! The electric corkscrew made wild love to the spork.
The moon is a Moor enraged.
No Doctor or midwife were present at the birth of the cool.***
The mortar of my house is stuffed with the hair and blood of wolves. I cannot sleep at night for all the howling in the walls. When I do finally manage to sleep I dream of men in red who skin my pelt and the scent of prey in the moist air. The knives in my drawers are white and curved. In the basement rabbits hang from cruel hooks. When I stare out the windows at night I can see as clearly as though it were day. Once I went away for three days and when I returned my house had gone hunting under the full moon. When it returned, the moon had painted my house red. ***
Is haiku possible in English?
Seventeen syllables, and pithy moments
Counted on our way to the Unexpressed.
Snails frying - plum blossoms going "plop".
Seventeen syllables, and pithy moments
Beneath cypress shades inside Shinto shrines.
Snails frying - plum blossoms going "plop"
Atop concrete dolls. Aborted spirits.
Beneath cypress shades, inside Shinto shrines,
My pachinko and Sapporo dreams
Atop concrete baby dolls. Aborted spirits
Slip through the cracks in the gates of Heaven.
My pachinko and Sapporo, dreams
Of import inspections. West slipping through.
Slip through cracks in the gates of Heaven.
Score kept on economies tariff slips.
Of import inspections - West slipping through
Is a haiku. Impossible English.
Score kept on economies tariff slips,
Counted on our way to the Unexpressed.
The blood-on-coffeegrounds sky peeks
Through the chameleon window.
Harmonium of satellites and mainframes.
While sharp elbows rest on the maps that
Are snapshots of a secret future.
For the Ideal Weatherman,
Love is a matter of invisible currencies,
Clustered around a few achromatic qualities,
As discussions of how the weather
May affect the drug trade, or the relative passage of time,
Is never mentioned.
Idle chit-chat before commercials
Is enough. Conversation painting over the
Dead space replaces romance with resonance.
“There will be a %50 chance
Of rain tomorrow, so don't forget
To take half an umbrella!”
We bow our spines over the Beltaine mound,
Seeking what forms the clouds may gift us.
“Oh look! That one looks like Carmen
Miranda running through the streets of Saigon!”
I am sorry to say I can no longer keep you invisible,
But I keep running out of excuses to give the
Doctor, and he will no longer be renewing
My prescription. I think he suspects something.
I suspect you will probably
Be leaving us soon.
No, that wasn’t a hint,
But do take your cotoneaster with you when you go.
The gaping whole in the unsodded lawn
Will give neighbors some grist for the gossip mill,
And the rest of us something to consider.
I can pronounce it “cotton Easter” if I want to.
I lied on our compatibility tests, that is why
Our misunderstandings have become the planks
You smash over my spine as I sleep.
And another thing,
You smell bad.
A poem, which some invent, clinging to paper
That discards the air. Shedding poems.
Silence of raw landscape. Of baptism, or rebirth,
Visions for tales - “language” - words -
Demilitarization of “language” and “power” cutting
With scenes in flames,
Angels white-haired, with red beards
Surrounded by artificial lights.
The sun, imitating the mind,
A paragraph placed solid,
Tear stains white on the gessoed canvas.
White birds on the shore,
Walking on the sand.
Each day land catalogues withered grasses.
Spectral cathedral blossoms. Stained pearls
Of milky asphalt. Whiteness inside marble.
Spectrum spirits paint the flowers
Of paper-white chrysanthemum.
The feather was buoyed into the whiteness.
The well-measured resentments spilled forth
From the cup - left each grain
In a separate square of the grid.
We exclaimed - and swirled them
About as though there were a game,
A predetermined sequence that may lead
To a questionable condition of Victory,
As though furrowing the brow meant thought.
All empty gestures of meaning were meaning by
Their merest relations. Philosophers who
Were raised on the sands of the beach, and flung
Rhetorical bottles to Poseidon, quarreled with
The philosophers who lived among the sands
Of the desert, with tomes more ponderous
Than the unfortunate camels that bore them,
But both were in agreement that the urbane poet
Was doubly cursed, for they were promiscuous
In their dealings with the psyche - and some
Of the worst people - it is certain - are poets.
What single act could astonish if performed by that
Quaint Enlightenment notion, our “fellow
Man.” Still… We relent to the curious turnings.
Invent new glues each year weaker than those
Previous, until the chicken-wire underpinning
Goes kaput and we are left astray in a field of hexagons.
Options reduced to only six horizontal directions.
It’s been expressed that the purity
Of lunar frequencies
Is responsible for one in seven
Acts of social madness and civil
How many accepted ones?
Let’s say three.
The anxiety of the sketch artist
Dealing with the soft facts of space
As though “reality” were not
A mistress of tender harshness,
A higher standard than that of
“The Old Masters”,
Who are after all dead and myth,
While the present
Is ever present
And wholly mythic.
“Why does my pen get nervous as I get near the end of the page?”
I asked my (who else?) therapist.
Silence. Her wisdom being such
That I was immediately thrown back
On the availability of my own resources.
After a single session I was cured of my melancholy
And a life-long phobia of stick-men vanished over night.
Now, some of my best friends are stick men! Truly affable fellows, with small appetites, and words few but insightful.
Their presence a rebuke to artistic pretension.
Of course the media is
Incestuous! And onanism in this
Belated hour can rightly be termed “necrophilia.”
I would turn
And face the day.
But my eyebrows are false,
Cemented to the ruins of my skull
This is the price
For dwelling in the apogee of the sun.
Stray rays lacerate my organs
Like a cat-o’-nine-tails.
Some think Space to be empty.
I know that it is full of gray delirium
And spare archetypes.
I had not the lobes
Give our souls
Fully to the discipline
Of passion - but instead…
The eyes have - and eyes
Are - eyes of greed.
Some more assiduous
At meeting their need than others.
Some eyes are stealthy.
Others operate on a principle of brute force.
The difference being the same as that of
A lily of the field
God cradles in His Mercy,
And one inked and anchored
Directly to flesh.
Labeled “self-indulgent” when another’s self not being indulged.
I will not be falsely accused if I cannot track where one’s selfhood is complete
And another begins.
If the map is faithfully rendered,
We will easily perceive that debated territory,
With lines that could well be drawn otherwise.
Colors that delineate lakes from “not lakes” are arbitrary,
But pretty, even so.
Thus I release the debates to clouds
That are without verb.
Allow the garden of language to usurp,
And spill bright leaves into neighbourhood yards,
Though they protest the wandering of winds,
In their secret hearts they bless the wealth of autumn.
Bring closure to deliberations.
May faith bury faith.
Sew new gaudy buttons on old navy suit-coats.
Relive prophecy through days
As though they were remaindered blue boats. ***
Webs awaiting house flies.
Silken shore crowns the entanglement.
Levitating under a strand
Seeking, at last, preserve
This unbroken scene of the victims.
The willing guardians.
Wolves before midnight
Sanctified the natural law,
And that serves his love.