The Smog
I’ve hit the wagon again, that time,
overestimated. Breathing egret. The peace
of coral, the color, feeds artist borrowers,
the recent manmade smoke and mirrors
we call sedentary shock—I’m flying
to the mansion, no flying away from
the rapist to a hill, sea level shifts, see?
I’d like to keep my bank job, hold your hand
when it sits there. All spirit gone to flesh.
Sell an acre to an allergic. Write me off
as a philo-melon, seldom-right-singing.
Tereus, avenger, did you have possessive?
Where, where, where? Where where where?
My my, it’s (my my) it’s mighty, oh My Mine.
The Breeze
Sonny I can’t feel the pain I’ve gotten me
a real ladylike whoosh of air it’s done hit me upside
down—the forest, the gentry, the lost, we’re all
captives here in the hootenanny
tooth gap awaiting a tongue. Number
each and every suitor. One, awake. Two, too
awake, ethical. Barely torque the tanker
but slide the slick before the oil so the opacity
recalls—this doesn’t feel right, does it—
I want to think like you, the you of shapes,
not the you of sizes. Integrity?
To say that something is adequate
enough is a tautology. Is already
is but careful. Ah is it just sap? Code word: funny
we all change into birds: some flee
or knock on wood, or cloud on cuckooland.
Quick before belief quickens the dead!
S’okay. I can’t fear the heat o’ the sun nor reason.
If scorned I be blurring blue yes, blue no,
’tis the sky should feel this. If secure, arrow
different worlds. Fear no more, the lightning flash!
While winter’s rages dock at sea,
the indefinite, head-down-brain-up crash of surety
repeats itself in different words.
The Cry
The factory of the qualified man beats its neighbor the leaning tower of mademoiselle’s
highest mind. “bound by assimilations.” surely to be art, voiceless, would be nice,
futurist sans electricity. WAH-WAH-WA/Ha. worm-intestine-luncheon-cocktail
-reform. results attained in open air, no glass walls, ceilings, separate beds. the illusion is
the transcendence, but its great lie, art’s mystery, is hierarchy battered at the base
of the temple. break fourth wall, o hell, a person-to-person sale, o seasons stranded
in allusion, the utilitarian snow, the watery spring, summer’s vanity, the ottoman/toilet.
portray the windmill. whoosh your hands around my desire for desire’s object.
my object rings the dinner triangle for I’m stuck beneath the plum tree kneading a history,
stripping leaves to their root and brandishing grass for nothing, till it’s a party, the dump
of mud, renewable for the next worker perhaps. my city, my city of shapes and sizes,
cooked and done, freestanding irritant unicycles everywhere.
Today
Dear, please accept this note
as an introduction to a new way of seeing things!
Irony notwithstanding, each character
must fulfill his or her own destiny.
When ghosts arrive, the murderess must stop
lamenting and participate
in Waiting for God. Here she may come
to a conclusion. She made it all up, after all:
the stairs, the stars, the army. If her mate
should look good in blood, forgive
the red light at the end of the tunnel.
It simply knows what it’s doing! If red light meant
our end, much less struggle would come
in the duration. The black hole?
Must we speak of it now as we hurry
to fork ordinariness to its duly note?
Dear, please accept this as a bar in front
of your face. I can see through to
the other side! Scenes enacted, bodies tumbling
through streets. Graffiti to speech, doll parts
to kickstands, knee-highs to scaffolding.
A man pushes his wife’s wheelchair.
In her lap are styrofoam cities.
In the white mass are blinking gaps.
The Time It Was Real
This does not exist—
an epilogue of limit.
Any offering shall embitter—(for
me?) relate in its crime a fallow mate,
fond of a ceiling’s weighty fall
when hands cuckolded by logic
miss mouth o, but head can embrace—
if this truth, sense, be not careless.
A fear of death, or, love—self or burden
may chew a space in time the shape of her
render body a circus the mad of her
mind a prototype the print of her (or vice-
verse) for theriomorphism halts
at human qualities and to what end
bird will need a servant as it did as man,
woman, chorused—and -ing, as always
An hourglass’s should to a board’s does
is hope to action, shape to person.
Swift gifting in the mouth survives—
despite transient (i.e. human)qualities.
Any love’s a face’s actor’s reason
for transient qualities, when blue
is non-directional, or sky loses allusion
and red sleep sleeps by a body
of imagination—hourglass by board.
As they held one another,
flew beneath their floor, a
when tolls chime war—
as text climbs tree—
