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I was when then a cancre, a boil:
My finger pointed in the cardinal direction of your eye
moonpeace hummus trash-can-punch werewolf in sheep's clothing a
books are burned here nearly every other day
I used to misappropriate my emotions into words which
I tend to think of my systems as macines
A coven of witches out for a stroll through the park
A conscripted individual making negotiations with
Centipede stuck in the quicksand
A hint of honey flavored that sip
The insinuation hangs in the smoky air
One interstice of my corpus is the
I was when then a cancre, a boil:
The rain came
converted the dirt in front of the house into a sandy mud;
quicksand.
The cat sits next to the puddle and licks her front paws.
My attention is drawn to the beads of raindrops clinging to
the grass. The tension of their grip causes the daylight
to prism.
The motion of my arm lifting exhausts me, antithetical as it
was to the natural progression of things, as Aristotle
described the occurence of gravitation.
My thoughts are becoming unravelled, like the edge of a rug.
I have catagorized my dancesteps and cross-indexed them
horizontally and vertically.
I swing my arms around in wide arcs, and I imagine I can
see many-colored window panes jutting out from my
midsection into the dance hall.
My head is sitting on a tangent from all this, my eyes
focused on either foot, which move as if operating
by pulls and levers across the enormous wooden wheel
that is this dancehall.
I was wearing a neck-tie, but the bartender cut it in half
along with a twenty dollar bill when I bought my date and
myself a couple of beers.
"What's the point of just drinking one beer?" That I would even wonder underscores my potential to lose control...
I think I can hear people cheering me on, but I realize that
I am not in the band. Just dancing.
when Karen came over...
and we chose a name for her...
she made it up...what was it?"
Penumbra. A shadow's shadow; a projection of darkness into
darkness, a missed dance step, a piece of ice, a shade.
"That's right." she's leaning on my arm, and I am trying to smoke
a cigarette without blowing the smoke into her hair. I
change hands, hold the cigarette in the other hand, rotate
my tangential head and it is not there any more,
she pushes me over, onto the floor.
muscle tone dependent on too many
factors to worry about these days
my
a piece of the moon was trapped in
the bowl of hummus
I was drinking from a trashcan full of
some weird rasperry tonic
looking like a werewolf
feeling like a lamb
staring into the fire I am lost in thought.
Words that are tall or small or token or joking or relegated
or separated or conflated or mistaken or not stood under
or not checked over or not bent over or sometimes specific
because they are bent over.
Sentences that are long or gone or fun or glum or left or
right even kissing your baby goodnightor looking for
a fight or witnessing one or instigating another or scarce
or farce or metaphor or similar or distasteful or both.
Pages that are thick or a trick or sick or contaminated
or exterminated or swashbuckled or bold, stories are dying
lying crying to be told...
Reports that are underscored or bored or gored or run over in the
parking lot by the garbage truck or never filed or destroyed
in some other sneaky manner or filed away only to be
summarily forgotten or transmitted or regretted or
heard.
The only thing I learned in college is how to live without a television; how many hours have you lost? I've already
lost too much...
My typewriter was my vehicle
and I was flying.
now it feels like another continent,
another world.
How many people did I write poetry for who never got to
read what I had written for them? How many who did
read them knew what I was trying to do with the spaces between
the letters, or the words, or the sentences? There
I was
frantically trying to bury something,
a trunk full of diamonds?
the corpse of my run over dog?
a hatchet?
a purse full of overworked credit cards, and a piece of jade?
a thousand books full of poetry and ideas?
X marks the spot (of a misspelling)
I must reinvent the wheel at the beginning of every project
I have greased this machine with the drip of stars
my church is devoid of icons
my heaven has no streets
no surface
no air
but it is no extinction, no void...
A kiss, a backrub, an order;
particularizing the sublime--
peculiarizing the absurd, yes, sweet-neck, that feels yum.
but let go of my belly, you're making my pretuberance feel
emphasized in some strange way...
and I like it.
Why refer to a segment of musical tones as a strain?
this engine is making a vibration rumble across the table,
The essence of person is discernable only
if the the person is present, stretched
out on the sofa, reading a particular text,
holding her chin in her hand and making a
game with her bottom lip,
after the modern texts became more and more absurd,
somebody has to reassemble them, retrieve them
from obscurity, reorganize them into particular
phrases intending to project illuminatin into their
dark corners as if they were
serpents in pursuit of
their own tales...
When I read Beckett I want to strangle someone, and when I
contemplate as to whether I am wandering in a wasteland,
I want to detonate a bomb. In my own telelogical
way I want to reconstruct the machine, power the engine
with words
connected by the nuts and bolts of my dreams.
passes us, they're all wearing photographs of lynched
martyrs and catalogues from mail-order storehouses they're
A growth on each of their chins like custard
boiling in a glass bowl
the mixing bowl on the shelf nearest the microwave
they walk in a row
an imaginary aisle of sidewalk
cars passing, honking, waving with smiling faces,
the women wear blue robes with black belts fitting loosely
giggle at one another's merest expressions,
a sneer at a five year-old boy sitting on a bicycle
outfitted with training wheels and a honking horn
Nuns they were, or so they say, married to God and on their way...
A mole on the forehead, a hand making an hirsuit allusion,
the smoke of
a cigarette wafting overhead
--or--
a calender of incense, coming through the open bedroom windows.
pointing at its billowing perplexity and
stabbing at them with a pencil,
too short lance!
hoping to poke a hole in the bag
and get the rainy day over with,
the boy makes a meaningless gesture and the sky responds with
tears.
hadn't been done in years
its trivial, inconsequential...
the hundred legs are swimming in topsoil,
grasping at uprooted grassshoots
which float like driftwood in the fray
and collapse
it is cursing me out of the side of its mouth,
the pichers are antennae of ire
and ignoble erudition;
I feel a little culpable, really.
I find a twig and stick it
next to him and it becomes a bridge...
as the creature dusted the dirt from his blazer
it shrugged its shoulder and offered me a
terse thank you
and then he is gone, off into the freeway network
that is the innercity lawn's grassiness...on the way
to his office somewhere under the
pecan tree.
My old house had gargoyles mounted on pedestals,
warding off intruders, but it degenerated into
a nightmarish fun house filled with curved mirrors...
Then I lived outdoors, repudiated architecture,
and became a garden hose with a knot in the
middle,
I had to unwind, but I was attached to another house,
and I went inside.
I discovered that I lived there with three other people:
there is something which I would like to admit
but I can not identify it;
"Why don't you commit suicide?" gravity encloses
envelopes my resoluteness and my subconscious
becomes magnetized, illuminated by lamplight,
reading by candlelight, asked for mercy,
given a gun...
an invitation to join the ceremony, a gesture
resembling a fissure in a megalith,
opening, an opening which means more and
more every time ou consider it...
I am glimpsing through time into a wine flooded night,
my gaze poking through the aperture, zooming in on
a phrase, a redictito ad absurdum, mirroring it
and considering it a potent instance;
my insensitivity is hopefully a transitory manifestation
of that sublime confusion, cacaphony, and isolation
which is the more world-weary hemisphere of my ego...
The arrow which has divined these depths within me, the
core of a leafless apple sitting on a stack of magazines
in a friend's backyard, I am taking aim at it with a BB-gun,
their wires, their turbine-generated speckles of light,
their mutations, their complexes of intentions and admirations,
their applause for my charity and my accomplishments
when I am smiled upon by strangers or carressed by her,
their Others, wrapped in plastic wrap and stored in refrigerated buildings;
their misappropriations of images,
their bastardy of names and icons..