Friday, March 29, 2013

^^^^^^^^^

The trucker is having the time of his fucking life.
His gasoline lunchbox, his liverwurst
prepared by a countess.
He is letting his angst balloon
into the radio frequencies.
He is luminously understanding
all the glad and sinister messages
are for him, but not for him alone.
Nevertheless, he is almost criminally
solitary, a stone carved heartily, left in its own
chiselled dust, he cries into a silver bullet
then seals it up in the glove compartment
with a cracked toy airplane
and the remnants of his marriage degree.

I wave to the trucker because I recognize
the strange stubborn miracle of his transport
but he only nods begrudgingly.  He is taking
a cargo of neon screws
a fleet of french fry ketchup plates
in flying saucer formation
and a crumpled pack
and the blah blab lah
goddamn windshield wipers
as a stunted language of mother--many wheels
passing the laundromat--begs her daughter
not to climb into the round and punctured mouth
of the open dryer, though it looks
bound to happen.

Thursday, March 28, 2013

<*><*><><>

Imaginary grandfather took his special flask
down from a high shelf, his hands
were the blades of an old saw.
He opened a valentine wormhole
by looking at the wall
between himself and not quite immortal her.

I've been gazing since, no matter how many
ships and goggles I gather for speed and blur
to paint highways over forest,
in deep corruption to be accepted.
Imaginary grandfather took down
a paintcan lid speckled with whole stars.

Wednesday, March 27, 2013

Orphan Vortex

I was a boy in a small frame
with grapes growing out of my chest,
vulnerable to all the wind.
I was a girl with early lipstick smudged
by a flying brick, and I do fight back.
Whole parades of human beings moved past,
smitten with plastic words, we spoke
across ruined air.
Intertwining above and below the blood,
we learned to share one body,
to make this nightmare smile.

Tuesday, March 26, 2013

NEIGHBOR CAT

Matilda on a bright mat, velvet black
brown and red striped fibers
big squares of sunlight
so pert in eternal window
this moment cannot eclipse her form
she is a swervy shape in fur
in the doorway's window on the dripping world
she is paying attention to the weather, nonchalantly

Matilda
on my wrists I can observe the shape of your claws
to remember you purred against my veins
you are ecstatic in your off-hand cruelty, your
cut train of thought
so small and hard in your eyes
you are the portrait of my feline self
shitting on ashes

Thursday, March 21, 2013

THE NOUMENA

The king of laughter came around, yapping
about a woman who fascinates him totally,
slamming his strong square head in the freezer.
Talking about the noumena, the expanse of the unknown
that frisks us when we wake deeply,
he fell through the kitchen floor in a riot
of clothing that discarded light.
He bellowed from the basement and leapt
singed and grinning
up through the gaping linoleum to stand on the edge
suddenly munching a zucchini, asking between bites
how the world economy should be melted into happiness
by a fire dance, how he should be first in a conga line,
how he should fuck, finally.

The king of laughter has a pain in his side
from a rotten rib, he still reads the Bible,
but only the dirty parts.  He visits
because the outdoors, he says, only insults the sky,
even in the woods, even on a mountaintop,
he can feel the inadequate architecture.

When the king of laughter has exhausted
the night-life, he finds a stone apartment
and lies down.  His snore is an engine
that starts it all up again.
In the hung afternoon
he is leaning against pines
with his cereal bowl full of blood flakes,
he is like Oscar the Grouch with a hard-on.
His audience waits in a thicket of earth-dreams,
he moan to bring 'em through a galactic cervix,
his bed is still wide open but now
he can't lie down.

Monday, March 18, 2013

()*(*)*()

The tiny, foolproof mutant moth in British smog
from falling water, which spins the machinery of power

folding and eruption
the face of the earth

massive walls take shape around us
distribute the flame into an even curl
lip downward and outward; draw it
backward; three heads together deep
hollow behind soft and slanting breast
between 3rd and 6th
ribs; with the sun's face blacked out by a disk inside

Wednesday, March 13, 2013

(..)

Every day I feel the contours of your absence
slithering in my belly.
Every day I must allow
the flames in my shoulders to flicker down
and let my arms hang quite limply
in the water of life.

I strut around spending money and drinking
friendly laughter from the air, trying to stifle
for one more night the invincible disquiet,
the mortal hum.
Astral vines that grow from my pores
want to be bathed in the milk of your ribs,
your fiery outline on the wall
of a tumultuously growing forest,
the door that you are
and the cathedral that sprouts from around it.

Until my room is all moss
and my pen hand is cold
as a buried stone
somewhere on earth
I will think upon
how everything I love is lit by you
I will study
for the core of everything that suffers from thought
the fiberoptic crossroads
where desire burns against eternity
to extend and extend
its meek love and its proud love,
its loud love and its quiet love,
until all the fertile chambers of the unknown galaxy
break down to pour it out.

Wednesday, March 06, 2013

POWER-PACKED PHOSPHATE FOR THE FLAME OF LIFE

From the flow of raw
by the cell from the atmosphere and the soil
this millionth of
a bucket brigade for energy
throughout the living world, in animals as well

As yet, the exact manner in which into its lethal halves
locked in the granules of the worlds beyond the milky way
the affinity of carbon breaks
animals fill a cold room
the air is warmed, moistened
it soon becomes sheaths, which accounts for the difference

Threaded coupling exhales, he gives off much
as the green moves in
as the dusk flowers