1163. THE RIVER LETHE

THE RIVER LETHE

-(part a.)-

I am riding this bark along

the river of forgetfulness; trying

not to sleep, yet failing at that.

Above me, a lethal form of sky

is hovering low; caves and flowing

water assuage the doubts, as I

duck and timber the flow.

-

My brain this time is purely the

loser. Attempting its own deceit,

so sure of the reality before it, it

pauses at nothing at all - but goes on,

and on, relegating a propensity for

reflection to only the water alone.

And even that reflection is but

the faint glimmer of moving illusion.

-

-(part b.)-

What is it I've carried this far,

and strapped to my back, no less?

What is it drags me through water like

leaden weight, sinking and falling? The

onus of this magnificence? Oh, surely

not that! The plaque-worn, granite-load

of memory carried, ever onward and more?

Perhaps. Singing like sirens, I hear a

feminine sound - voice, songstress, singer.

And, oh though, would it be, she were mine!

-

-(part c.)-

This foul nomenclature; I bury the

name 'neath the waters. Why try the climb

and the flow? I am sinking as I sing. Both

regard each other equally, these words -

past me strange landscapes pass.

I am entering Heaven,

or I am leaving a Hell.

1162. A FEW MEN

A FEW MEN
A few men making mischief can ruin a
world already gone high to Hell; can take
a tree and bend it 'til it breaks, can re-route
the rivers and streams until Scylla and
Charybdis look serene. I wouldn't pass
their way, for even a dollar or less.
I may have been to the hills. I may have
been past the gorge. I saw the arrival
of new Fall and all its colors and noise.
The toll house was filled but with skeletons
as I passed - and, to be truthful, it was
not any longer Halloween.
-
I get sick of the costumes and pretension.
A few men like this, feigning magic and skill,
can alter my world and enter at will. But I
will not let them in. The high heats of August,
all of them as one, will still linger in my memory
and keep their cold faces out.

1161. I'M GOING TO TAKE THE BET

I'M GOING TO TAKE THE BET

That the light on your face is better than

any light of God's or glory, that the sun in

your hair can make miracles. I already know

that the miles within are always greater

than those outside. This is the story

to which I subscribe.

-

Mandolin meadows, scrumptious saliva,

and the deeds of every common man.

I am going to take the bet, that within

this world, we are each doing all that we can.

1160. ONCE PASSING THE ZUIDER ZEE

ONCE PASSING THE

ZUIDER ZEE

Kindling wood. An oasis of little men. A

pile of flowers cast away. Don't tell me

anything I never knew before - these

are catcalls I hear; the frown of the loser,

the arched eyebrow of a distant King.

-

To all those men who play cards, I say,

'play on! Eat your cigars and finger those

cards. Leave nothing behind but ash for

the mice. This is a miserable Paradise,

yet a Paradise nonetheless - and you

never get a second chance at that.

Malingerers always remain idle.

At heart, anyway. Look up, once,

as I pass. Just say something,

and I'll keep moving on.'

1159. TOO LATE FOR THE PARTY

TOO LATE FOR THE PARTY

I'd come too late for the party : the tables were down,

the cups had already been taken away. A few dead-drunk

people were set around like puppets props from the

Living Theater : twisted limbs, frost on their faces,

and all that shouldered harmony of the dense. The

pretty waitress from the kitchen sauntered by. Picking

up scraps, she sparred with the busboy; as if throwing

darts and flirting with results. Only the lighting saved

the day. I'd asked if I needed a reservation. 'Now?',

she said, 'we're going away.' Hallelujah to that.

-

Along the stairway, the crescent moon had bent strips

of yellow light; they rolled across the steps lending

a color to the night; not much, but a color nonetheless.

Had I been a smoker, this would have been the place.

Instead, I took my rest - leaning on the wall I watched

the three men from the Carson Warehouse load their

crates : marked from China, big, strapped wood,

probably filled with marbles or nothing really good.

Cheap wares and Chinese flares - all that stuff of

dollar stores and emporium fairs. Junk, probably

like the boat they also named.

-

I realized I was late for the party. I realized what

I'd thought, as well. If I had a Chinese junk, I'd

sail the harbor solo, never setting foot on land

again. Impractical as that would be, from all this

patter I'd be free. It took a moment more to sink

in - nothing mattered anymore, and I was

drowning anyway. Too late for the party,

and too late for the festive tray.

1158. EPHEMERA OF THE SCATOLOGICAL

EPHEMERA OF THE SCATOLOGICAL

I knew it wasn't going to work from the moment

she walked in. She took her dress off. A moment

too long, it seemed. Nothing underneath; oh good

God, a pussy like a fist. My sunglasses, as I recall,

came off in an instant. With her one hand, she

flicked some sort of radio on to a songbook of

her making - a shifting yet frolicsome jazz

I'd never gotten to like. We sat down for a

spell, just learning to breath. She said her

name was 'Emee'. I couldn't quite grab

the pronunciation.

-

I'd never done this before : 'too many years

in school and not that much to show,' I'd said

to her long before, when her mother was

still around. Back then it was a difficult

choice, the 'her or her' - now that she

was alone, it was much more simple.

-

I jacked up her car with the only

lift I had. The car stayed up

a very long time while we

worked on the engine parts

parts below. Things

running, and

things not.

1157. AVERROES

AVERROES
I found Averroes with his abacus
slopping up the floor - using his
perpetual rags to clean up his mess.
It was so very simple : migrant
headaches and Iberian disputations.
People nodded as we passed. He'd just
put everything back, saying he had
reason for this and reason for that.
None of which I believed at all. Like
anyone else on this ripped-torn planet,
he was wandering without guide
and lying to boot. I laid my head
down and cried.

1156. SICK UNTO...

SICK UNTO...

Death. And the old Rambler,

parked at curbside - half a century

old already, limping, leaking, leaving.

Puddles of oil where once the sweet

Byrds sang. Fifth Avenue Presbyterian

Church. Gaucho Corral and all those

gay boys, choir-singing themselves

to Death. Again. Mention at your

own peril. When Cult becomes

Culture - isn't it true - we're

all in trouble. Double. Trouble.

-

Weltschmerz. Gotterdamerung.

Wiener Schnitzel. Oberamaggau.

-

The hand on the light bar is

controlling the stage. Things go dark,

go light, go dark again. We don't know him.

Don't know who even let him in. Mention

at your own peril. Or mine. Death...

and the old Rambler, sinking at the curb.

1155. BRING THE POPE TO ME BY TUESDAY

BRING THE POPE

TO ME BY TUESDAY

It isn't an egregious harm, this web-craft lounging

that we do; inexperience, amidst those whom I admired.

Wantonness, together, brought us both to this sepulchre

- where now the geese fly by, along, and high overhead.

Atop the clouds, the sky. Atop the sky, the Monday moon.

-

I'd always wanted such meritorious service; alike to

myself and those around me. We swilled the beer in

the open field, wrote stories of each other in

darkened classrooms, and practiced at the target

with our lethal bows and arrows. Yet, somehow,

still alive, we stand to thrive. Will not leave.

Demand an impression, a visit, a blessing.

-

Let Him come then; nothing like that matters.

Bless the baloney sandwiches, and bless again

the sacred water. The Red Sea parts at noon.

1154. NEW HOUSE

NEW HOUSE
(suiting myself very well)
I lifted the new house sideways until
its cover came off the door, but by then
I was already startled with wonder. There
was, as well, a new tenancy - beneath
floorboards and cellar doors, precious
moments now, of a newer calling. I was
dwelling in a box of my own creating,
and suiting myself now very well. The
wild lilt of the cardboard edges, right
there, where once all the boxes had stood,
left forms of ghost image, like memory,
in the space where a closet should be.
I came away with nothing, but felt all
the more secure. In my new house, I
so sure, I would want to stay forever.

1153. TITLE

TITLE
Let us call this something nice : the juggler, who
loses a hand in an accident, the singer, whose
vocal chords fade, the soldier coming home
with one leg. Or - as I've heard before -
the ballerina who can dance to nothing at all.
Everything jumbles together in that shop on
the corner. In a window, the fortune-teller's
globe and a wand. A plastic pyramid pretends
at ancient Egypt. The lone red light beckons.
I wouldn't know anything if I knew nothing at all.
-
In the rich man's atrium, I noticed, he
displayed his collection of medieval armor.
What appeared to be knights in full regalia,
chain-mail and weapons strange. Studded
balls and quaint devices with which to kill.
Things I've forgotten the names of already.
I wanted to laugh, but just scoffed instead.
Yes! This is how we built our world, and
who else but this rich fellow should know.

1152. DEEP FOCUS

DEEP FOCUS

If one goes to deep focus, a penetrating leap,

the edges blur from the distance and colors

seem enhanced. Lines and angles thereby change.

Like the swiftest, sleek ship skittering swift

across an ocean smooth, there are seeming blurs

where things should be. Wild maritime breezes

blow things crooked, as bent-by-time-itself worlds

change and collide. We live a far too comfortable

life when we don't know things such as these.

The threat of comfort looms, the slow demise

of any integrity and daring snaps us shut. The

very midnight sky trickles down upon us into

a dark and bloodless ooze. If one goes to deep

focus too soon, on the other hand, there

is only one mistake to be made - the scent

a track dog takes for granted : that this flat

life will last forever, or should; that reason

and logic make everything right, or could;

that we are most alone when we are

working with ourselves. Beats me

what any of that means, but

there it all is nonetheless.

1151. 44 CARNATIONS

44 CARNATIONS

I counted 44 carnations on 24th Street along

the front of someone's store. The light was all

brand new and the day hadn't even really

started yet : tall buildings massed in the looming

distance, as if trying to overhear a word. Lights

changed and taxis dove for cover. Something

like the Flower District was limping along; all

those sagging storefronts still old and decrepit.

No one had yet fixed up a thing, as if the

rest of the city - all that new glass and steel -

didn't really exist at all. A man was on the sidewalk,

his prayer rug on the ground, and he was actually

bending to the east, as some form of sun came up.

The solar-powered worship of carnations and men,

it was, that made me realize right then - and stop

dead in my tracks - that I was living in a moment

of time unprepared for by me. I never thought this

would be. I still live in a court of milkmen and

breadmen and doctors who came to one's house.

Maybe a simpler time, but one still there for me.

Too bad then - all this super-speed and overlap,

people playing notions off the ground. A million

ancient things beneath the sun, still leaking in

to color a day that's just begun. For me, I

shrugged and moved along, still

watching shadows on the wall.

1150. RANDOM THOUGHTS

RANDOM THOUGHTS

I want to bless my readers, anyone who does,

and especially those who comment. I really

love them all - invisible matter I can think

about to no recourse, having nowhere to go

nor image to see. Unlike the sky before me,

or that orange-fat moon stuck low and full

on a Halloween horizon, I get nothing back

tangible from them except the wizard-like

feeling of knowing they are there. Trick or

treat this, I say. They are the razor in my apple,

and I am only too happy to bite. What that says

about me, I leave to you to decide. But please

don't write me about that. Please just say you

love me back. I'm really that miserable a person.

A cat, meowling in sickness in my own sour milk.

1149. DEAR UNCLE NEFARIOUS

DEAR UNCLE NEFARIOUS

(before I hit the ground)

I am writing to say this to you :

I want to take my own life. Very

slowly, mind you, but take it

nonetheless. I want to go double-time

slow on the breaths I take, taking

only one in the space where two are

usually needed. Will this then redden

my face? I wonder. I want to drink my

poison by the drop, in droppers I think

I can get from Joey's chemistry set. I think.

If I poke my skin with a sharp knife-point,

just a poke, day by day, will it eventually

add up to a jab? What can you tell me?

Perhaps, as I am changing a tire, let's say,

can I get the car to only slowly crush me?

Can I outlast the hurt? Why no, of course not,

if I could outlast the hurt I wouldn't be

planning to do all this. Asking these stupid

questions. If I jump off a bridge or building,

remember too, I only want to come down

ever so slowly, floating this way and that

like a feather, for a very long time,

before I hit the ground.

1148. IN MY TIME OF DYING TOO

IN MY TIME OF DYING TOO

There will be nothing like the haste of passage when

the passage makes haste to come : enter at will for

there is no turning back. That bevy of shoes and socks

in the doorway, remember, they were all for you :

left by the millions, forgotten by all, never needed

in any case. Cavemen and acolytes, millionaires

and troglodytes, the mixed sortie of ten-thousand

atomic bombs - all going off in your face, at once.

Lights the brilliance of flame, clouds as silver as gold.

1147. SPURIOUS & FURIOUS

SPURIOUS & FURIOUS

What will you do for me, Mr. McMosty?

The genuflection we never see, the rip in the sky,

the poise that makes a skater shy?

I can never be what you are now, but at

least I can sit down and alter the place

I sit; finding better places for that.

I open to you now both of my hands,

yet you will see they are full of ink -

ink and paint, the mainstays of my

existence. Yours, on the other hand,

a spurious form of money made vague

by speed and froth. You say so much of

nothing, I blanch at the cantilevered fabric

of your fulsome cloak. You anger me, you do.

But that fact makes no difference.

Together, we are a team from Hell, both

reading different signals from the

selfsame signal giver.

1146. WALKING ON THE EDGE MARLENE

WALKING ON THE EDGE MARLENE
My God, I really don't know you :
I am walking on the edge, Marlene, here
where the early-morning street-sweeper
crawls along the curbs and corners, splashing
water out beneath its scratchy brushes. Like
the cat's low meowling, I am heard to utter
sounds - long and short, no matter, all
my sounds nonetheless. I walk past all
the empty doorways and the broken lights.
I really don't know you at all.
-
Turning inward is an infelicitous thing -
inscribing thoughts in private notebooks,
writing small ideas in bigger places then they
deserve. The sin is wanderlust, some seer says.
I laugh back at him, and say 'I've been walking
since I was ten, you fool.' I really don't know you,
Marlene, but probably wouldn't even if I could.
-
Paradox and conundrum. Two paired ideas
of nothing, going nowhere. The frog shouts at
the pond, and the pond shouts back - yet only
they, in Nature's way, can understand each other.
I find that seems a lot like us. I really don't know
you, Marlene, but probably wouldn't if I could.

1145. TURTLE DOVE OASIS

TURTLE DOVE OASIS

Camarague, mistral and the sands

of distant Morocco and such - I want to

land upon my feet, you see, where I can.

Tortmeister, hammelsinger, Wednesday's

King of Prague. How those ancient names

remember. Let the torch flame singe the palms.

-

Native lallygagging layabouts

listening to sweet squiggling musics.

While their fair girls dance all

the way to France, I envy

all their aplomb.

1144. KILLER

KILLER

Wanted dead or alive, keeping company

with bedposts and bar-girls, spinning

a six-gun under his covers. Let us find

ways to reach him. Writing in cities

to people in the country, while sending

letters too from the country to the town.

He's a voracious sidewinder of subterfuge

and disguise. And though I'd know him

anywhere, I'd have to see his eyes -

the eyes that have killed, those eyes

which look past the pinpoint aims at the

end of the barrel. The Rook at the head

of a chessboard sweep - really nothing

so valuable, and nothing we'd keep. String

him up, in your imagination of course, for

he only gets down again and can ruin -

certainly - any day you may have.

Free is nothing. The task is simply

in staying alive.

1143. OF A MADRIGAL AND LACE

‎OF A MADRIGAL AND LACE

Madrigal and lace - a gloved suggestion for your heart

to be reached for by others. Lights of the great world

around us. Inspired by the Heavens, all the arts are

at your feet, and I thereby beseech you for your

Winter ice and Summer heat, all those things

which make us vanquished. In the inner harbor

of the greater mind where we all unknowingly

live, there are things amassed we feel but never

recognize : a heartfelt face, a wiry heart, the

pound and pace of all Life brings us.

-

The grab-bag stories of Gods and grace, we

memorize the lines and speak them, in haste,

only then pretending to understand. In front

of us, some mental marshall with a cloak and

scabbard pretends to force us to want to go

on living. That ship has left for outer seas.

We are standing by the seaside posts,

awaiting the salvage ship of Time itself

to bring us rescue, rescue and

solace, and rest.

1142. SYNOPSIS

SYNOPSIS

Into my nature there entered something dark :

spinning a shadowy maelstrom right into my

heart. Doubt equalled spin, and I questioned

within. The rising and falling of breath bespoke

my goal - a sparkling Freedom, from both

ascension and the falling down. Like the

airs of a distant star spinning afar, the

darkness kept moving about me. I looked

out, shrouded in flesh, and found - for

the nonce - that I couldn't move myself.

A certain heaviness depleted my strength.

I knew too soon how much was over.

My dark soul resonated with its

black depth. Suddenly, I felt

ready to move on.

1141. KAISER AND FALKENROY

KAISER AND FALKENROY

"I can't shouldn't have done anything looking back

the measly way it ended still makes me sick excuse

me I'm sorry not then but now." So, bedraggled, I stayed

to watch : fifteen sickening more clowns and that frantic

reporter from the Post, the dead, raggedy body being

drawn from the water, the car horn somehow playing

itself, an alarm gone bad or something. This was how

it seemed things should never have been like this.

"I'm glad anyway you came it's good to have you

here. Yes, he was my brother, but you probably

knew him far better than me. To me, he was

just always a creepy outsider. So sorry now

so sad." He turned away and walked to

his car. Same old black Buick I'd

seen him in last time. The other

people too started breaking

away. I took a breath and

walked off, leaving

nothing behind.

1140. HIGHWAYS & BYWAYS OF A NEVER-ENDING GRACE

HIGHWAYS & BYWAYS OF

A NEVER-ENDING GRACE

(nyc, 1969)

I walked the jester every night.

I never felt about 5th Avenue this

way before. Not at all. 'Shining light,

good night, Applewhite' was really all

I could remember of living back then.

If I'd ever attained anything, it was

no attainment at all. And then there

was you. You were just a heart by the

riverside - probably why I loved you best.

Kept as chatter, released as lust, held like

so much else. That small house on the riverbank

bluff - late night yellow illumination by lights

beyond. A side-apple romance, and you sure

knew how to bake. I've got my own story and

I don't need yours. Simplicity kills, and baby I

ain't got the breath to go it alone. How is it that

when we touched we touched on two sides? My

belly to your belly, it always seemed, out on

that highway of a never-ending grace.

1139. OF STAN LEE AND PEPPER WALTER

OF STAN LEE AND

PEPPER WALTER

They were carrying their wallpaper home like

gendarmes on parade - comic book characters

frozen in time. Nettlesome voyagers, glue-paper

fiends, superheroes now stuck outside of time and

thus powerless now forever. Past doorways and

garage sheds, past all those tank tops, all those tits,

along the city's streets and alleys in this Summer heat,

past windows of dawn and afternoon and evening too.

It was a gracious pronouncement by a humorous God :

a Being of salvage, a Maker of many things. Stan Lee

and Pepper Walter, forever together, walking by.

1138. LONG NORTH AMERICAN FORCE

LONG

NORTH AMERICAN

FORCE

Well, well, what should it be! A voice

like this, talking to me. All along the

deep horizon, that Mohawk warrior

slipping through some Glimmerglass

woods. That upright and peering soldier,

staring straight ahead. What he would see

if he only had eyes : His complete future

of nothing is made for our ruination. He

killed this Mohawk for tar and retribution,

a never-met occlusion made for today's hate.

All ass-backwards too. Would such a stupid

soldier see, over the Mohawk's corpse, parking

lot buildings of glass, abandoned downtowns

and Nature walks, mad, frenzied shoppers

beating each other off? And off? And, of course,

that dollar sign that chokes every newborn

baby's cry. For these sickening nascent social

forces, soldier boy, go home and let us die alone.

1137. THE MOMENT, THE NORM

THE MOMENT, THE NORM

You should then have to witness everything -

passing vignettes of solace and harm, the

complacent, dull homage of a million separate

lives. In that window grange, the two people

in their kitchen, eating one guesses a breakfast,

by the hour of day. The light thrown onto the

courtyard like glass from where they sit. A

dull, yellow kitchen glow somehow brought

brightly to life. A red sweater on a woman's

body, like a tea cozy on some ceramic pot.

A pottery bowl showing shape and form.

All the same, everywhere,

the moment, the norm.

1136. THIS MIGHT BE DIFFICULT

THIS MIGHT BE DIFFICULT

A man I once knew as alive is dead - not the first,

mind you, but another in a line. I barely outrun the

bunch of them. Suicide, bullet to the head, cancer,

motorcycle death, diabetes, stroke, aneurysm...

I'm naming but a few for those inclined to know.

Not a one of them did I truly 'know' in that sense of

a science or a chemistry of knowledge or psychology.

In fact, the whole entire lot of them baffled me always -

left me stranded, bereft, without too much emotion.

Misunderstanding all I saw, so to say. But I was never

too much concerned. I'd listen and nod - whom they'd

just fucked, where she was now, how it went with

Lola or Cindy or Jane, career crap, exploits, every

outrageous claim. The idiot with his made-up shit, stories

of expensive clothes and imported denims and leathers,

three-thousand dollar sunglasses, whose ass he'd just kissed.

I was supposed to be impressed - by such fucking lies do

you know them. Reality being, he was probably a psychotic

freak still locked in a cage. But one alone. There were the

others, more sensible, more gentle, sweet and kind. The

writer friend, living alone like a snipe in a garrett, unsure of

everything but his isolation and distance. Much like me -

I had to say 'yes!' to that. The academics, the union guys,

the ones with the money and big jobs. Everyone a circus unto

himself, my guys, one by one passing dead for death and

gone for forever. It's so fucking over everyday.

No more, no never.

1135. STILL LIFE IN BLUE AND WHITE

STILL LIFE IN

BLUE AND WHITE

For at least the time being I am living without

reference, without you, and without direction.

Now, to my left, are the heights of Morningside -

as they are called - and, farther off, the jumble of

the Jumel Mansion. So many things are different,

while so much is yet the same. I see little women

with petticoats and bonnets scurrying around.

They hold trays in their tiny, small hands.

Tea and coasters, things to eat. Odd it all

is to see this now, years and years on.

-

If people say I am a seer, it is because I see, but,

yea, only backwards - through a mist of time,

through blue China dyes and porcelain tiles

and Delft. All those things of those very odd

words and very old days. In essence, whatever

I am and see, I want to be left alone. This is

all ruined by crowds, dissembled by noise.

-

I am jarred anew by the sound of a truck or a bus,

one or the other, breaking through space. Two modern

men, loud and annoying, are bolting past me walking

fast and - seemingly - now shouting towards each

other as if they actually have something to

say. What a wasted day. This is leftover time,

poorly spent, a civilization of laggards and dopes.

Others are eating from paper wraps, spitting as

they talk and chew. Gentility falls to the ground

around them, their still life in white and blue.

1134. EVIDENCES

EVIDENCES

Abound. Everywhere.

Small towns made of sutures

and stories, monuments to the

war dead of decades old dread.

Persipolicitic nurses still handling

judgement bandages and kindling wood.

Ideas, campfires, hospital wings and

graveyards where the teachers wait.

Tell stories. Review the past. Engorge the

new reviewer : we are what we are not now

and never have been what it is we set out to

be. Wars and revolutions may be dandy,

but they accomplish so very little.

1133. ROOTING THE END TIME

ROOTING THE END TIME
I was finding things out : dirt turns to mud turns
to dirt once more. Light turns to dark turns
to light again. What essence each has is
far beyond my comprehension. An
American atom bomb project called
Trinity? Three Gods in one hat?
-
I drank coffee at the Livermore Lounge.
She came over, to sit with me. Her
name was Alice, and she'd said
already that her mother was
a communist but long ago
dead. Named her other
sister Enola, after the
Enola Gay.
-
Beats me, all this does. Broke my mind
and broke up my day. I really wanted
somewhere to hide. All I had was
a drink with someone who lied.
No chance of anything
more than that.

1132. GARGANTUA

GARGANTUA
Embroiled are the lights of Sydney,
massive are the flames of Koche. The
frogmen sit around, talking of Melbourne
Harbor, or the swift currents along the
Adelaide Breach. Of a sudden, behind
them, rises up the great monster, roaring
like a fountain full-flowing, tearing down
all beaches and walls. Ancient foundations
crumbling, structures of 600 years fall
away. Like Galileo, Newton, Einstein and
Godel, it has effected a great certain
change in the sky. 'Let us cancel all
knowledge now,' says the lanky fireman,
'for this has now altered all things.'

1131. PODCOAT

PODCOAT
This world won't be mine, this world won't
be yours. We are probably as good as dead
already. Things change and time passes.
The variegated coatings of the round
pills we digest are the colors of a life well
lived. Nothing escapes fancy : watch those
tree-leaves turn their ways, listen to
the black walnut pod fall; it hits the
ground with its own sweet thud.
We can ignore or we can absorb,
but I bet we can't forget - all that
which we know - from those
long tribal pasts in the forests
and woods, when sense and
reaction was all that we had.
Say what you want, but
life gets no better. Of
that, you should
be glad.

1130. INSENSATE

INSENSATE

(bulgaria/cold entry)

I have seen every valve turned the wrong way once -

gas flowing, water flooding, gates closed

and long doors locked. No one could escape.

The mind-rending shatter of glass and bulb,

blowing out everywhere. 'We know our men by

what they leave behind them.' It is so bad, in fact,

that carnage of this sort has its own encyclopedia entry.

-

Wipe the countertops down after spraying.

Burn all the cloths. Separate the cuttings from

the regular trash. We are done with our work.

1129. MY OWN ANDY WARHOL MOMENT

MY OWN
ANDY WARHOL
MOMENT
So upon coming my saint white-eyed
over-present dominator of one's only
ragged dreams; you opened eyes
commingling but faintly with things
upon this Earth. I'd seen your kind
before. The trailers of all my stairway
trash - where the man so inspecting
the new table stays in place as he
crosses nonetheless a doorway. Paradox
is like that everywhere we go. A repetition.
The random rateables and the oh-so-constant
precisions too. This is, after all (you said)
'what makes art art.'
-
Kiss Brillo Box Empire State Blow Job
Sleep Kiss repeat Kiss Brillo Box
Empire State Blow Job Sleep Kiss.

1128. ONLY SO MANY SHADES OF RED

ONLY SO MANY
SHADES OF RED
There are only so many shades of red.
No? New? Old only? Say what can you
say see do you paint me? Red? Homosexual
tablet you say you were watching Spartacus
again 'for probably my twentieth time.' I
honestly turned and said what I thought,
'but I do not know what that is.'
-
'A movie,' you said, 'just a movie.'
I replied, 'but they're like billboards,
they're everywhere but you don't have
to see them if you don't want. They can
be ignored.' You laughed back, and said,
'only so many shades of red make
this red world red.'

1127. LIFE DRAWING

LIFE DRAWING

To be just sitting around, drawing

the lines from the life before you -

drawing like talking and drawing like

draw. Either way, what I say : the

modular forms of the things placed

before you, like icicles or vases within

the orange or pear. I know as I go I

cannot see what's there. My own

achievement is this smudgy line,

drawn from where I cannot say.

Lifted from a memory, or a

fantasy of flame.

-

As I watched, distant enough,

but still alive, the entire world changed.

'Don't write that letter, rather keep

your opinions to yourself.'

1126. SCIENCE GENE FLOW

SCIENCE GENE FLOW
I awoke as if from another land,
one better suited to my ways and needs.
A needle into a spike - I'd goaded these
changing illusions on. I had not wanted
words, but got them anyway. Used
and unused both, they received their
comings no matter.

1125. THE BLESSING OF THE DOGS ON FERRY STREET

THE BLESSING OF THE DOGS
ON FERRY STREET
I stumbled here by quite the accident
- dog yawp yowl, unleashed and how.
They stretched the rope and gathered
on the grass. All those leaders and their
dogs to follow. The parade was a graceful
canine bite - more like a suckle than
one of fright.

1124. SANCTIONED AND OVERDRAWN

SANCTIONED AND OVERDRAWN
There was no taking back what already had
passed. I'd known that anyway. The lumbering
light had broken our brows as we spoke; patterned
reflections of leaves and trees splashing oddly,
I noticed, on your forehead and hair. That newly
installed black iron fence, so perfect behind your
form. The passing of a season, just like this,
would be a pleasure to behold.
-
'Come over to the this corner, watch my heels
in play.' I didn't understand your words and, gaping,
my own jellyfish mouth wondered what to say in return.
Or I wondered, I guess, what to make it say. Life
is a funny process like that - a part of me commands,
and another part follows. The mind is in control,
but everything else wallows, not knowing what to do.
-
Perhaps in itself that is why time passes.
We're lost without a referential edge, so -
as the sun passes overhead - we fill our times
and days with sleep and patter. Tongues wag.
-
Just out of reach, to my left, lines of people
kept passing. Art gallery denizens, weasels of
taste and fashion, high-line skippers running
a dirge of their own making. The city out
before me broadly stretched, buildings cloaked
in form and color and light of their own reflected
glory. I'd read the book, yet I forgot the story.

1123. MAKING THE GRADE

MAKING THE GRADE

Making the grade means handling a heart,

breaking an arm, forecasting displeasure,

causing alarm. See no idle postehaste here.

The wily wren I just saw catching sunlight,

scooting away at a sound or a hint of trouble,

how unlike anything I know is that bird.

Reading air, understanding space, flying

through time. I envy the unexcelled marvel.

-

Down at the river, athwart the canal, the old

steam-man was seen sleeping in the sun :

on the bench built along the toll-house wall.

I noticed he threw no shadow at all - it was either

noon or, better, his image was but a chimera,

teasing me back from some hundred years ago.

(Either way, I'd never know).