Monday, March 20, 2017

2 o clock blues

Under the blue dome of New Hampshire
where I reside like a glass eel
people are screaming at me from windows
in meaningless tongues,
the high winds are rowing cattle
people have figured out that I am a crazy creep
and there is nothing I can do about it
ripples are going off to the edges of the world
to be doused in further ripples
celebrated Sundays are vibrating in ceremony and bread
there is a circus of fools unfriendly
to strangers and the strange
and they lurk in their lounges and hallways of death
like the zone of a drowning minister
punching and fawning no shortage of prophylactics
setting up stones and hopping over them in quick succession.
Pillow hills throbbing back lit fringe
burrowing sky
touched bark and scratched air
flowing in teams of light
particles over the river
slugs dying in tandem
warped and melting pairs of walls
pudding for vast sky ships to pour into
thuds of aching earth pricking into the aftermath
of harmed skin and blood over the concrete
slimming time and sidewalks
talking through the power lines
with the voice of an articulate baby
who needs meat to land on
and is no hostage of perhaps a mask
man of leaves
in my humming I am a vibrato vein
for the pickle or freeze sleep of a silent wind.

Friday, March 17, 2017

I am water
exhibiting signs of nervousness
water accepting a paycheck
water is what I give to you
because I just flow that way
water undressing the room
sneaking through the tableature
rearranging the notes, the string
on my shirt, the propellers
that don't cut, the currents
that don't document
what they take down
water changing positions and narratives
water taking umbrellas apart
water switching places with me
until I am my own double
who grinned at time
til time grinned back
hard.
Come to the autumn buds,
constellation dweller,
unharmed child of the narc squad.
Flock in seeds that sell yourself
to places sticky with gold.
Torn dwellings will name you.
You will get to see your currency in light.
Totems of stacked lids
will surround you with their errors.
The machineries of day and night
are different from one another.
You will gather a family around yourself
and then shuck them off.
Calamities will braid
through the cells of angry creation.
Hubris will move under the clouds
with total passion.
Beautiful ones will have their blade marks,
dunces dragged into the rain
will make orphans of a toolbox.
And the symmetry of death
give its underside to the sun.
Coming from the turgid mouth
over a hillside of fires and still pools
side by side, careening missiles of humanity,
we take wooden hands from splintering hallways
that have fed on long fluorescent lights
and descend to the valley of water tanks
to devour meat and coffee.

Wednesday, March 15, 2017

Burning infinity down
together we had a fire,
this quickening place
frosted deep, animal froth
in the pocket of an otherwise smashed life,
that vibrates with sonic flowers.

Blooms glued on the air,
little buds of ecstasy and terror
furred to mark the bits of bright time
with instantaneous formation
of the many in one,
the falling partners and those whose harmonies are calling
with a cask that owned them across the green water
from the ate up start.
Intricacies that chime like sharks,
swill of days promised to toilet paper,
amazed circuitry that winks
back at itself from its own light,
the entanglements from limb on limb
with which we are dancing,
and the horrified eyes and the mocking eyes
standing up on glaciers.

Passageways glued to you
will follow the desert,
hunger on tin respond to sunlight.

Plumes of speech
bleeding from the long mouth.

Worries printed on your tongue
flicking receipts in the twilight.

Monday, March 13, 2017

The animal life of the boreal forest is frozen
aquaculture and harm
food grown by convention
forests, hillsides, semiarid problems
blood vessel slums in the United States
the sleek rapidity of nonexistent water,
genetically improved vacuum cleaners, jackhammers, and golden insect vitamins

Thursday, March 09, 2017

Pinioned to the start,
arms from ears
folded across my forehead,
I listen to the telephones of insane ministers
quacking and barking
and run to the voiceless part.

Eggshell lids open
on the rum of my eyes.
Tree branches cascade and cross
up through the blue afternoon.
Ceremonies left behind
fade under the water.

When I thought I had strength to give,
I needed succor.
Now I unfold my memories
all over the pock-marked earth.

And the river of my death
pokes my heel through
the curb of a cracked sidewalk
into the rain forest heart.

Monday, March 06, 2017

Shot out over the green highway
reminded by smoke and sun
mounds melting and feeding mud
veins slimming to the sound of sliding plates
slashed water and complicated tongues
a cinch, a pure product
lovingly I sit in the drizzle of aftermath days
waiting for the closing beauty
to come in radiating queen of spade whips
leather plumes stung flyers arriving
from sky depths
shapes of galaxy-far places
hung in their eyes like a daub of paint
and cemented throughout.
Echoes of basketball stadiums
a ripe winter and an eater of winter
over the soaked and exposed grass
centuries of winning closed to bids of wimpy mustaches
the fringe of heedless autumn
backing into a high brown rock wall and backyard sand
the pure prime ant hill
for all animals of shelled being to congregate on pinpoint
brought to the outskirts of throttled there with the water
devours a sandpaper face
thoughtful vacuum who consumes in whispers
talk wafer of a pilfered bed's pillow
graciously giving way to a wagging cliff-face
french fries and mozzarella sticks
plunked to the glass table of a raw midnight,
chalk children aching ring's rind.

Friday, March 03, 2017

You rule a dead phone.
You make armored gestures in the night.
Somewhere a skyline is drawing on your eyebrows.
Somewhere a treepole is spinning its flowerets off.
Chainsaw sparks in the guts of the day.
Money running its mouth.
Oaks of sand giving vapor leaves to the centerless air.
Toppled monopolies of iron coated in toothpicks.
Land furniture that walks around.
Toasted brine of hair and eyes
looking back through the terse curvature.
Cinnamon waffle ceiling skimming by in waves.