A jet plane flew over!
That never happens.
Where I lived before,
it always did. And so
for a moment's vibration
and thrill, I found me
transported: just like
a kid in one of those
big blocky seats, up
there. Which soon
enough shrink
to confinement
too small.
I was in another garden,
some way to the West,
in a time of sunlit fall,
and praying by reflex
the plane would not stall.
So far they have all
stayed up, and gone on
to wherever they'll land.
Not a single
dropped ball.
Call spades and clubs
and hearts to hand,
and diamonds too
as fate deals art;
Call swords and staves
and cups and coins,
whatever suits.
Now play your part.
my first book
was published by a radiologist
operating out of his garage
against my will.
my second book
involved a sex-for-pay scheme
that never quite came off,
and interfered with the plot.
I ditched both
disgusted
my third book,
never came out
to great acclaim.
my fourth book, though
proved to be a turning point.
I discovered what a book
was, and that my prior books
had all been tomes.
this realization still
haunts me, but
not in any really
gripping way you could
get a book out of, or
anything
I have a similar attitude! Sole
responsibility, straight to the grave.
Gravity's okay. I approve it. The stars
get it on upstairs like something mythic
way out in the countryside
far from our own light,
looking up.
The only way to explain that shit
is lies.
Come with me. Take my hand.
Lie with me. Tell me you love
100% and - I don’t consider
my love to overrule. Anyway,
works out cool.
I say we basically take face-value
and presume (first presumptuously
as hell, then in good time,
sumptuously): “good faith.”
We either get there apace
in straight aim and striding
time, or else we end
up firing wide
at each other's
sniper-scope skewed
displaced straw mockups
of thee and thine. Makes
for a terrible action movie. But this:
“If you fail to understand my fault,
the fault is mine alone.”
Just so.
And so, having no
authority to do any otherwise
whatsoever, I really
have such sensible basis
and cause
to trail off
looking into where
your eyes should be. Which
is where mine should be.
This world seems short
on reliable guidance and example
for the young. Much
of what the grown world
wants to sell them on
is hard
to see the way to buy into.
When one person’s con
is another one’s job,
where what’s most
important in life
is - for many,
as they look in the box
- not included.
The future will never come to pass.
The present will always be
in its way.
In all the dark days
of our histories, every one of them
only was now,
and could never stay.
Some fucker flew in my red wine glass,
and
I didn't even notice. He'd been
in there for a good little while
before I saw.
I found him in there, to the side,
all dead. Had to be, I thought. He'd been
fully immersed! So I held the wine
away, to the side, and I fished him out
he was wet and harder
then I thought
he would be.
I thought
"some moth?"
I just didn't want
him to dissolve under
my finger!
I fished him out dead,
and hard, and sad
and I flung him out
and down, and he hit
my leg
and flew off
I couldn't even tell you
what I have done
We motes
grind stones,
roll wheels, sail boats,
and make much mulch.
Life longs. Hands cry,
face rests. Door flings,
chair falls, steps skip
mad blest.
Winds sigh
night's wings upheld
moon looms,
starshine
warps weft,
blind rushes
meld
to you,
from mine.
And then,
bereft.
A “vixen”
in Greek myth
and folk belief, was
believed to be a she-fox,
or a foxy bitch. Foxes
in general were held
by the lusty
rude and earthy
Mediterranean rabble
that made up the Greek ethos
to be smallish canids of vaguely wolfish
or doggie-style, body-wise. However,
the Greeks imbued these four-legged
freaks of the ecosphere with more-than-human,
less-than-divine qualities: craftiness. Slyness.
A cunning almost feline in its perspicacity.
Because of this, they would stick
foxes in stories doing all types
of stereotypical fox-stuff. Aesop
told the most famous tale: how the fox,
cunning as hell! - beat Sherlock Holmes
to the punch by using classic Greek logic
to deduce the sourness of grapes
as in direct proportion to the height
and therefore inaccessibility
of the grapes. The moral of the story?
Foul grapes are even harder to get
than they are to want. Point is.
Despite all the detestable Greek
superstition which has dogged foxes
all through fable, myth and legend all
through time - even in Native America
and the Europes! Wherever foxes are,
these Greek ideas about foxes have
somehow
been “flown in”?
Theories do not abound.
To me it's obvious. A case of the Greeks,
having learned from Plato as usual
about the world of ideas, discovering
the ability to impart ideas about foxes
directly into the shared underconscious,
where Jung took the hand off from way
downstream in time, sent that Greek
ideal fox back to the house
to confuse even the stoic,
cool-minded “Indigenous
People” of the world all over.
You are foxy in the deeper sense.
The animal sense. Your cunning
and savage couth tempered by
a pretty good nature, bright-eyed,
bushy tailed, that’s the spirit animal
aspect I saw. That’s my babe.
She’s a fox.
my blood is totally funny
in reasonable amounts
sitting there all red.
It's like
it looks like a cartoon
except
maybe more slick,
smeary with a foot-track shot
through where one slipped
- trying too hard to get a towel!
Wham! Missed the mess, thankfully
- and glistening like a liquid
jeweled dark ruby pool, where
it sits undisturbed
like a cartoon. Except
what's it doing there?
It's funny, because absurd.
Hey buddy! Why you
outside me? Did you
get lost? Some loss
of blood, you know,
you feel bad.
Poor blood!
Blood is kind of
like our own buddy
on the inside.
It's funny
to see that dude
get out,
except
blood
doesn't do well
on its own
there is no way that I can do
what I want to do with you
without certain things
happening everywhere
all at the same time forever.
As soon as I let you know,
you will be able
to bring it about.
Until then,
we are both powerless.
A sandwich is a food-eating
technique
whereby
foods that would be inconvenient
to eat with bare hands
are contained
by some kind of
cooked cereal paste. Handy
for holding and taking bites.
It is
considered
a rude lunch
or snack, or
breakfast, if
the food inside
is breakfast food
like pancakes, or
cold cereal,
or dinner. If you are
slovenly, leading
meaningless lives,
incapable or just
uncaring of proper
dinner, sure.
A sandwich is
the salutary solution
to so many foods
you
want
to take in hand.
Saw a girl with a t-shirt once:
"YOU HAD MEAT TACOS"
Well damn
I mean I have had those.
That's a new low plateau
in insignificance elevated to
commodification, though
I thought! Doesn't even
say what meat! It makes
a difference. I was bemused
As I supposed I was
supposed to be.
Then
catching
perhaps my perplexity
from where she was?
She shifted and smoothed,
squaring herself:
"YOU HAD ME AT TACOS"
I was
astonished
and apologetic
and - she laughed
I could explain. She
looked at it herself, said
yeah, the words were too
close
together
damn it
I thought.
I want tacos
You're a drop of light from a starry
height that expands
everywhere
your ripples reach,
and I mean that. Sure,
I mean everything.
As they always say
those who can't,
do teach.
The living things
poured out of her clothes
and fell, writhed once
and died.
Each left a hole of a different
shape. Each had the color of dye,
and texture of shirt, or pants, or
hoodie, progressively,
underthings
With nothing conceivably
telling why. As all of these
people around were stood, but
milling or passing - not seeing
things. She can't cry
for help,
because then
they'd see. Attention
distracted from normal
and good, averted to horror
and shame
this brings - whose cause,
in a minute
shall not be explained.
Just fully exposed to discovery.
Cruel humor and shock. What
is she doing? Standing like that!
With -
their eyes peering down
- a circle
of strange, dead
colorful things
on the floor or the ground,
which cannot be turned back.
Cannot be put on.
It's horribly real
the whole time, and she knows
that it is going on. It's happened
before, she suddenly knows. So
familiar, these times. Sometimes
it occurs in the back of her mind,
as she goes about running dream
errands galore, and she drives it away,
back down to occur - not to her, not today.
And it doesn't.
It waits.
Then when she won't suspect,
it's the nightmare again. It will not
wake her up, because in the dream
on some level, she dreads
that she'd wake up a man.
Some horrors in life are worth
living through,
so as not to wake up
from who we shall be,
if we get through them.
We each of us tread deftly
on the borders of sorcery,
milady. Oh lordy, take
heady warning and heed
this hearty encouragement
against the unseemly and
seamy examples of those
who’ve strayed seemingly
too far over bluff’s edge.
Found themselves
in the incredible
Wile E. Coyote position,
standing on air: looking down,
down, gazing for hours
into an iridescent abyss:
a charcoal midnight purple
curtain of infinite transparency
and opacity in descending
chiaroscuro depths,
with party lanterns
hung deep all through,
shifting positions according
to some inner math and music,
each its own.
This is language.
If we’re not careful,
it could steal all you mean
from within you and present it
to the one in front of you: impossibly
perfect, full and exact. All it takes
is you know
what you mean
about each thing.
Which is not the same thing,
but you’ll also know:
what it means
to you. All it asks
then, is that you dedicate
aim in finding and catching
each word-by-word,
catch-as-catch can,
every delicate or sturdy
vessel for such meaning
and sense, to aim in meaning
well-spent ’til the last one drops,
and bleeds
out dry.
That is all language wants of us
who feel its call.
It seemed at the time a joy
- not much to ask? But
language it turns, has
a trickier seem
than most note.
It is not us.
It is not a thing like us,
language.
It is nothing
to do with us.
Except in use
and pondering.
It is alien.
It came
from before us,
most of it.
However you fancy
yourself a nonce artist,
a neologian, you plant
puny seed in a field miles deep
whose trees were acorns, once
floating between stars. Yet
past a point you feel flush with it.
Even as-if smug! Some never pass
though and out of that point. Child,
it is no credit to us.
Not whatsoever. It is a force
that does not live, but hangs
between us all in mind.
It has purchase in us,
already so deep.
Do not let it buy you out.
Did you know that fungi
are the ghosts of ants
that led selfish lives
did you know that stars
are holes punched in night
by the human glance
of angel eyes, once
they saw how right
they were to fall.
Yet how short the stay,
and cruel the price.
Did you know in the seas
there are mermaids still?
they assembled themselves
from huge garbage drifts
like Sargasso seas, except
plastic and what should have
been landfill. Did you know we
can make up all of it? If we start
far from home, by the time we get
here, at least half might fit.
Well speaking
for myself I love
not murdering people!
It’s a positive enjoyment.
There are as many reasons
not to murder as living human
beings I’ve encountered, so far.
Murder murder murder murder.
I dunno, just seems kind of silly.
Petty somehow.
It's kind of condescending
when you think about it. Like
you think
you're better than them
He is lying on my head that I stole from him.
I’d sworn it his forever, but I took it back.
So now I find his whole self poised and sprawled;
weighing on my mind, as I ponder and stall
for a perfect countermove,
which
ideally is not
a counterattack.
Haha
man this grainy-ass blur lookin' chick
is hot as hell YOU from whatever
schoolchild year this was! Damn
that sounds wrong, but girl, HOW
(you older than I am woman
now don't coy me out) you
make me out to be a pedaperv
on a time paradox jag? That
ain't right. You all leaning back
smile glam casual candid shot
cool of your hotness, we all once knew, well
hell
I remember
that day way back. I was
in another State I bet, and probably
diapers. You on the other hand, oh man
it gives inner infant me a baby boner to
think how much SHAME OLD ME just got
self-smacked with merely commenting
in appreciation of how hot a child
you serve up of yourself to the world!
I mean, I do not misappropriate here,
I hope. But you did say yourself
"S<3 HAWT"
so
Look, I don't even like kids! It's just
it's clearly so you. You can see
in this pic, you can clearly see
the woman you once hadn't
become yet. All that
promise, you
know
make it look so good I wanna
feel bad about it wink
GROW UP
This is a great picture!!
So
I understand you keep changing your hair color.
and
it looks like you're differently wearing clothes too? but
you keep switching it back! Now
look people
are
reading weigh too much into this girl.
You
do you.
You it.
I can see what you doing
exactly
and I'm
like aw yeah, here comes the world,
girl
Mack "3rd Eye" Blinderson has
or had a certain cocksure insight.
For each thing he saw
to penetrative depths,
He saw another thing
to dizzying heights,
which, afraid of them,
he'd hyperobscure, project,
redirect, overcompensate more
or less by degrees than he thought
called for. He posed it as an act, but
it's so much more or less than that.
For instance, Mack wore a black
t-shirt with a candid shot of an
unsolicited dick pic - not his!
Just the pick of the batch that
he'd unsolicited, but nevertheless
got. Ridiculous: Mack was straight.
White. Who was he kidding, putting on
this black t-shirt! The contrast was absurd,
but apparently fit just right. Mack was
always
pulling such
gay tricks. It seemed
the solicited thing to do. To him.
It's not nor was, nor ever should be,
but a dude like that can't always see
clear or true ways out or through like
me and you can, do, know-how all-wise.
Poor Mack
was a hapless dork those ways. It's why
people cut him a break in the back
with his own damn selfsame
namesake knife. Metaphorically,
of course. Surprise?
No not really. Not to Ol' Mack "3rd Eye"
Blinderson. He's rich in surprise curiosity,
and curiously poor in reasons why. He calls
disappointments epiphanies, and poses as if
because it's fun, and acts like his whole façade's
not him. But it obviously is. It's the best thing
he had to put on.
The purpose of your argument
might be better observed if
I clout you with it.
Social critics
and dissidents reserve the privilege
of immunity speech grants - they
relish it! Yet
I find simply to serve
them back their own with mustard
does the trick neatly. We can't object
to our own, can we? Not,
anyway, with our mouths
full of it. To do so
would put one on
oneself's wrong side,
discreetly.
I know its behind me but
I won't look. It's a bunny,
I can hear it in the bush,
doing not its funny business
but straight-up bunny business,
making a living like a bunny
boss. But it's eerie back there
behind my head
it always was eerie back there.
That's where the devil stood
watching without complaint
as I throttled my conscience
and became a man.
Now
there's a bunny! And
I'm not going to look, because
what if I turn around and oh
shit
it's a bunny!
I mean, it's not going to be
the devil. I'm out here on
the screened in deck, immune
in full view of all public eyes
from the influence of diabolic
or even demonic incursion, even
though I can't see a soul.
Shhh, don't tell a soul, but
I actually never could see
one of those. S'alright.
One can infer.
Even as one can observe the stillness:
Backyards free of householders, no kids
cutting down and across the common
depression making for the pool this
December 3rd, not even in Florida,
on a colder day no doubt than hell,
does that guy come up here for this!
He only stands behind me to watch
whenever I 'throttle my conscience,'
the fucking pervert.
It's a bunny back there, but
in case it's an angel or something
I'd rather respect its incognito.
Besides, hey -
I think it's gone!
thank god
My crooked wife
is on the take
to curry influence
with me.
The local crime boss
suborned her
by means of
intermediary.
It seems he thinks
her influence
can blunt
my interfering ways.
But I'm just glad
she's playing nice!
I love my crooked
wife these days
We differ majestic
on minor things,
keen in intent
swinging views of each
'round. Or rather,
to swing reality
- into place
were agreement
between shall be
found. Not since
we gave way, relented
or slid! Because it's just
set there, beside what we saw.
Alongside both staked and set
stances, as if
after all
of this dicker and bliss
what was right
and acceptable,
all along always did
exist.
I won't fight you for you.
But I'll fight any thing for you
or for us. For all time and place.
I will never chase
you if you flee,
but I
will run every race.
If you lead, I will pace
myself to overtake, and we
will each lose our share, but you
will never lose me.
I aim
wonder
curiosity to discover
by means of: sense
and sensory stream. I do
and shall find all through,
all that’s findable by such
means. Never I'll be done
of it.
All truth
findable by other means
I find valuable another way via
whim fancy curiosity, to the other wonder,
speculation say, of realist bent or irrealist,
surreal, sometimes boundless: unreal.
By imagination or envisionment,
by othersensory opening out to feeling,
finding and opening the aperture inside. Opened
to void pulling in all. Opened
to cosmos roaring
through
and out:
thorough
and rough.
So. It’s cool
as it was is and all ways.
Find boths. Eithers, ores
of many kinds quite more
cool I am not
your rockbound being, but
I’m that too. I am rock finder,
rock minder, and a real knower
of stones. Stones are every bit
real
as we've found them. And
quite a bit realer than I’ve
been able to find so far
otherwise.
So what I do
is
I take this vow
and shove it right
up the fundament
where it can shine
shine shine in peace
for you.
The black cop's in the show
like Sidney Poitier,
right there to show how right
producers are, and say:
society's an asshole, see?
Oh, they still are! But
not us, baby: no,
not we.
You can tell that's what it
says that's how it bees, and what
they're trying to say is, "oh,
please. Be fair: agree
we did our part by
faking up a story for
your mind to fart
around in: you
did your part,
too."
It's
absolution
of a sort-of
sort. It's true as
if held true.
The white female who won't put out,
the white female who will, are both
just
there to make one point:
the patriarchy
is or isn't with
us still.
Either way, producers plop
a plot with roles to signify
not human beings: human things
that mean more than they are,
and why. And people fart
around in mind, and nod
and wince, and frown at
what.
Whatever has been
neat set-up
to be frowned at.
So
we're
absolved
of all we've
got.
I keep an opaque eye
and an obtuse mind
(acute at one end) and
to keep unblind, I
keep also one lucid eye
open.
Well, it's really
translucid, but eye
keep hopin'
There's something wrong behind my ear
it's filling up sebaceous stuff
I guess a cyst is what it is
how long's it been there?
Long enough.
We only want to kill what once
we held and loved as best in us
when consequence held few rewards.
It’s odd the ways we seek to even scores.
It isn’t odd to want. To try, to make the sum
come out. The sun come out, not go away,
but life - was never running sums, or balancing
except by means and ends that we ourselves
have run as cons.
Otherwise and Meanwhile went
for a walk: the longest walk ever off
such a short pier. They had to keep
stopping to make things clear. Otherwise,
they'd never get anywhere. Meanwhile,
they kept starting on again, making such
progress as each could stand. Distracted
by Meanwhile's otherwise point, Otherwise
accused sarcasm again. Meanwhile thought
this was out of hand,
but could not answer back,
since they'd got on a roll
and with heads full of steam
they fell smack in a lake,
and have yet to land. Meanwhile
we wait. Otherwise,
they crept out
and slunk off just so,
probably as planned.
Working your way through
your crushed-in cares
Climbing your way down
a pit of stares
Finding away from the goals
unset
Giving away what you'll
never get
You can give up
You don't want to
What's been the point
of the point of you
How many ways must
a you walk down
to come home again?
the town's burned down
If you breathe like a child
If you breathe like a child
If you breathe like a child
you'll see
there's no difference
Fitting so many starts
to a point
Working the ache and the kink
off joints
Searching the roots for the cause
of its
Shining a light 'til the cracks
come together and fit
you up
you don't need to
it's just been this crazy want
of yours
to find yourself in a sense
well-made
making the best
of all lineless plays
If you breathe like a child
If you breathe like a child
If you breathe like a child
you'll know
just one instance
and breathe like a child
if you breathe like a child
if you breathe like a child
you'll grow
up, grow up
you're not finished you know
you're not finished you know
you're not finished
you know.
Bury me nude
full of bullet-holes,
just as I am
then.
We shan't
pay the rolling tolls
of bells, of wreaths
and crepe. No casket
or ceremony. In lieu
of flowers? Some
tasteful black
balloons
for who to release
as they wish, and
when. Dig a hole
lay me out, altogether
and all, by the open grave,
by the open bar, and some
canapés - hold a rollicking
wake. And when the last dog
is hung, just roll me in.
Then let night and day
call foxes and crows
to dig in. Let time's
sweet healing begin.
About a week's worth of
me being late, somebody
come back
and fill me in. I will find
the time with abated mind
and breath. Let the dirt rain
down full of worms, and
tally the scores of years
since birth
was bested in death.
Call it
another triumphant win
for the people of Earth, tied
every time at the finish line
for best we get.
Seriously, could
such sentences ever
not delight? The prose,
the prose! Everywhere he
strews himself sudden
roots a rose. So it goes,
so he knows or at least
thinks he knows. It's
a bit "on the nose,"
and much to expect
of correctness in assessments
so drunk on glows
deeply grown, picked
and pressed into heady
hearty reds, gleaming whites
shone with light deeply
gleaned in the wisdom
of berry and terroir,
and all vintner's arts.
Plus a few choice rosés,
for the sake of the sentiments
exposed in the starts, and the fits
to catharsis of hearts and minds
blown to bits in the words,
words, words, words, words,
words, words. In the plucking
and the pricking and the tucking
and the sticking in the spinning
and the winning and the dining
and the whining of the words.
I am milk
mild
meek ass
wild
bold
brass consequence!
(Presumption of)
all I can see
my way clear to:
my part - and free
the force
of its
brute bucking thrash
and quash!
By which
the world grows
round the more of what
I could not see - not possibly!
Or know conceivably - the more
each missing part of mine
I stoop to find and own:
The deeper in
and farther out
a ripple splash
can crest to waves.
From pebble toss
to skipping stone,
to boulder sunk
to thunk displayed
in sea-changed home.
Tucked safe and warm
in algae blanket, coral bed:
and kissed g'night by social
morays swarming by,
as is their norm.
good says ways
are better than bad
happy ways, I think.
Or maybe I'm bad
at telling between,
but feeling I get
says shrug
and wink
Mohandas Dewese, known as
Moe Dee and styled as Kool
apparently used to hang with
a dude who liked people to call
him "Hung Hunk."
What's more people apparently
felt it fit and right to honor this
braggadocious appellation of
self-identification. That's
wild. Either that or people just
started calling him that and
he said "Correct."
Alternate
interpretation: SOMEBODY
I won't say who
was stuck for a rhyme
for "We fight with our hands
and nobody's a punk!" But if so
in that case, due
to the situational factors,
we can pretty much rule out
Hung Hunk.
All this happened in the West,
apparently. Although: West side
of town, or Western section of
a housing development, we don't
know. We can infer: sunset's
indicative, but don't go there. At
the
wol
wol
wes
If you're a clown, they don't mess
around.
O, what
an absurd ditty
is life! You buy
a dog and end up
with a wife and you’ve
never once dared to screw
that pooch. It’s against the law
- plus she’s not your type.
It could be worse.
We surround in it.
Can't take it all in,
since none of it fits.
Who says "wife's a bitch"
intends to die, or at least
deserves richly such fate
not I
The ugly duckling grew to goose.
It made its sibling ducks so mad.
"When all this time we swanned
about you treating you so well
- so sad! Filling you with big ideas,
calling you the special one, in hopes
this pond would have a swan
to look benevolent upon! And
each of us, proud brother duck
and sister to a swan so bright!
Just look at you! One gander
tells the gruesome tale to goose
affright!" The goose, meanwhile
crestfallen down, to find its future
held no swan, declared HONK HONK
and flapped aloft, with weight of
siblings bearing down.
Eventually,
as seasons changed,
the ducks and goose regretted
all. In memories of such childhoods,
so much to look for every fall, so much
to find in every spring. So much to love
in each so grown so foul and fair by turns,
so strong.
Our goose came back to find its ducks
had flown. They could not bear our
pond, and all their lives there lost
and won. They'd gone to where
the gooses go, to find the goose
who was no swan.
So. Here's a damn question for me
I'll warrant. Why, on social media
for instance, am I always (oh, come
on "always"? How often! Irregularly
at best) breathing a sigh of relief
to find someone
I had random crush-catch pang
or fuzz of hot fondness for, once
- just a pure good thing, you know?
A wonder and gratitude as one
tends to have for all truth, good
or beauty seen in evidence, in this
far too often gorgeous, absolutely
factually veracious and right-on
world! Someone anyone, to come
across again distantly after long since
having drifted apart on separate lifelong
courses, for that matter never even slightly
in any sense "together," or "having"
(I mean not this particular one)
- and she has "kept her figure"?
No, arguably I do not think it
in those pig-dog terms, but
I analyzed the reaction just now.
Pretty sure that's about the size
and shape of it. Naturally I took
a step back and said "Yo to self.
How natural and cool a reaction
is this, and/or some affront of
some kind?"
See, I'm supremely vigilant of the fact
that if everybody was a mind-reader,
humanity's population would be halved
every week for as long as it took
for the available supply of aluminum
foil to be distributed as hats. Which,
unrealistic hypothetical, but thoughts
lead acts by the dick sometimes (or
the equivalent), and words can wound.
I don't say "I keep mine pretty clean,"
that's nonsense. Dirt isn't clean. Nudity
is not held clean, though if people understood
how many microbes and mites infested their
entire suit of clothes right now, down to
the unders, some of them would overreact
into immediate nudity wherever they were,
and demand the world find some way
to scrub them clean
which it never can, and would stall
and stall over. Point is. So I had
that reaction, as noted, and abnormal
to me I had a thought about it. Also
as noted. Reaction to a reaction - not
my home mode, I'm a simple guy,
but there was this to deal with now.
I don't shirk that. People count
in my view, and I mean all of each,
not just a big ogle in the goodies
and walk on, "mission accomplished!"
Such things need to be checked and
why they need to be checked could
use some checking!
Okay. So I began in on me by
second nature, red in tooth and claw:
"Where's the pure glory
of innocent everybody's own
good humanity angle in that one,
buster? FESS UP. You just want
the once-fuckable (except in practice
with rather a practiced lack of attempt
or intent, only theoretically so) to keep
their honor and virtue
of hotness,
whilst 'in mind'!
- you maintain a devil of a
self-advocacy job! Playing
the dispassionate social aesthete,
going 'Well of course, it's nothing
to me either way but I expect
that's a good thing for her
life, in her own view even,
especially in view of this
hegemony of pig dog eye values
always propagating an as-if sex
objective fixed scale and rank
system hinged on
- hotness, if posed as a virtue ideal,
or
- fuckability in consequentialist
or utilitarianist terms, despite
let's be honest, none of those
lauded as fuckable tend to be,
at least by those singing the lauds.'
A natty abstract case of dodge
ball there buddy but it doesn't fly
when YOU are one of the ones
rating so rank, clearly! It's YOUR
pig dog eye wallowing in the
'kept figure' of some - one - known
to-you to-be way more than just
a passel of well-placed sinew
slapped on a skeleton and organized
i.e. fit with organs, such as a skin
to keep it all in and rounded out nicely
with fat - but as nutritionist prigs say
'the good fat. Not the bad fat.'
That's crap and you know it! She's
got a HEART, TOO wait. OK. Technically
you covered that under 'organs.' Is that sufficient
to your so-called and posed heart of molten gold
beating out an unbeaten tom tom to the tune of
a dude catting around kitting out chicks in
mentally applied birthday suits immediately
transposed to one's own bird in the hand
upon the next convenience? Yeah yeah!
You make me sick, atomizing humans being
to parts! You've clearly got her all covered,
her human heart - all the glory and weight
in the world, by your evident hypocrite
scales! You just shuffle it in with the organs,
as if it has no folk anatomical value or
magic at all to you! What happened
to YOUR heart when you were beaten
as a child by your own hand I shouldn't
suspect! Knowing as I do better. You got
her plumped with organs and wrapped up
in soft skin surrounding, heart deep within
pumping blood in more places than she knows,
or cares to be aware of, I'd bet."
THIS is where one has to just
step back from the duel of sides
inside, declare it "overthinking it,"
further declare oneself on the sides
of all the real human beings in the case
and against all unnatural warping
distortion to be posed and imposed
on any of them.
It's worth doing. Overthinking
sharpens the head whether done
right or not, sometimes. It rarely
-to-never solves the damn quandary,
but sometimes it does establish
there wasn't a quandary. Or as in
this case, there's
arguably some stuff
it's good to spot. Gawk at.
Accept, deny, or if
the getting is good as per
two norms and nature sets: catch,
give up and down receive likewise,
lay it where it lies right and
once found, identified for what's
what and good, perhaps? Keep in mind!
Heaped in with all the other stuff in the
keep pile. Congratulating yourself on how
the keep heap has just overtopped the
discard heap, equally present and
oppressive.
Then, you know, just grab your ass
with both hands to prove you can
tell the truth literally, and keep
eyes wise and wildly abreast
of further developments.
YOU DON'T HAVE TO,
nobody does
Pretty frustrating stuff for some,
and ultimately: who wants it?
Who needs it.
This one?
I score as a draw, because
I'm not sure what or whether
any problem is, but I'm glad
I checked myself headlong
rather than proceed obliviously
unawares into who knows
what glorious annihilating
pair of eyes, wrong word,
right on time.
I mean, to be honest such
moments of truth are also
to be prized.
But I feel less stupid
with the obvious
when I can figure it out
more wise than otherwise.
The lines were rote, received as writ.
When we were kids, we treasured it:
how right from wrong
could goodly shine.
How just could cleave the world so fine!
How black and white divide the day.
How bright the line
made sense in play.
How fair, that we
could see it plain.
Now we've grown up.
It's just the same.
Since all between the lines we find
all shades of gray look white or black
depending on the light we play.
Obliterate! Or turn one's back.
Avert both eyes, and call it gone.
So that's a wrap. For every dark is
just a dawn, eventually you'll see
how long.
There's no shade too complex
to see it all the way, or not at all.
Our innocence will never lack.
We've all gone home. We had to
take our ball.
I thought of you today for
the first time in oh I don't know
and realized the way I've been
was not the way I was or am.
I'd been unso. Whereas before
I always was just so. And now
I'm rightly so. Again
who knows
why such trajectories
and how.
It's kind of about
this someone with flaws
that everyone knows
and nobody calls.
For they love this someone
some much, some sure
- their opinion can't stand
to come or to get to know
anymore. And
them's the breaks! For that's
all she wrote, or that's all he
makes, to want to care less
for each other, ourselves.
'Cause that's what it takes.
We call it "drift,"
place no blame either way.
We all keep such shelves,
and we all catch such drifts.
They all seem so sure, like
shining white snowed-upon
hills so pure, but the crust
can't hold weight unless
heart bears it up. So it
breaks and we fall
so deep. Suffocate,
sunshine
buttercup
Puke Eye,
the tummer one!
Viscerally insidious,
insipidly emotional -
cerebrally, though
he's hideous.
All of his friends
are such a mess. Ordered
and tucked and ranked
just so, they jockey
and shift positionally
hoping to catch Puke Eye
off go. Hoping
to catch
Puke Eye at It.
They're sure It is he
who's ordered their mess.
They've checked and rechecked
It against themselves, and except
for themselves, there's only one
common factor to guess.
It is he: "he he,
he he" he says going
gliding by, as if in a deeply
darkling hint: "Correct, it is he!
It's me! 'Tis I!" PUKE EYE!
They just cannot quite believe
the tint of their spectacles:
yellow and blue. "Oh say
can't you see it ain't so, Puke Eye?
Not you!" But they do not say
any such ain't-soings, yet.
They're afraid of each answer
that they might get. "How COULD it
be he?" One wise kind sighs. "He's
always so tummer?" "What's that
even MEAN," some dumbass
replies. "IT IS I!"
SAYS HE!
PUKE EYE! Had passed by
and listened in, see? And he is
in pat fact, the tummer one.
He never claims tummest.
His ego needs reins
to reign in such rains
as the sky downpours.
For the sun cannot see
such a crying shame.
If you want? Take a long,
damp look. It's yours.
The well I am in
is infinite
but the water
goes only halfway up
where I bob like a dork
shedding tears of joy
in bottomless hopes
I could fill myself
all the way to top
Green Lantern has a thing
for blondes. They make
him weak with
their hats not on.
Lex Luthor once gave Lois Lane
a Kryptonightie. Shame, man.
Shame.
Oedipus just limped
through life in proud defiance -
death for dad and mom for wife!
Exactly as foretold, foreswore.
Damn your eyes, man.
Fate's beneath us
to abhor
We know you
know these arguments
of ours
from each
and either sides,
and I know why
and I agree
you cannot seem
so true or false,
and cannot let
either/or lie,
or just
let be.
So I pull out
and cherry pick
best snippets from
your scripture writ,
and
- be the prophet,
since you must.
Because you are.
It's only just. But I
will be evangelist.
And we shall see
whose news is pressed.
And we shall see
whose good is not
nor ever shall be left
to rot, or missed a spot,
or hid beneath
a single bushel
basket, for
like thieves
in nights
we come in sneak,
each baring glaring
lantern lights
to put this thing
of ours to sleep,
perchance to let
it rest.
Postponing wake,
'til mourning must
and actually comes:
procrastinate, for you
and I,
know which of us
has always won.
I badly need to eat
more greens,
or maybe I need to
get more sleep, or
maybe my eyes
will degenerate
to the point
I longer see
mirrors weep
For pity's sake.
I have always said
that pity is mercy
that has no power
to spare.
And I think that's a
pretty apt sense! Except
that it seems I no longer
care.
Oh,
"Who cares, dares" I know.
Hogwash. Fiddlesticks.
Dumbbell cellar doors
doorbells broomsticks
bedknobs and awards -
Take so many wands!
Bundle up, bind them all.
Put spells on, toss bon mots
now we know this too-long
autumn is spoiling for fall.
Time for bonfires! Sorcery,
horsery piling on
to on high, let
chivalrous
wizards
catch hell
and die, all wrong
by dint of main strength,
puissance plus wisdom
dexterity spent.
Magical realists as well:
yes. You.
Let us have us a pyre,
with tunes to dance, too.
Set the light and smoke
mystery show between us
and dance, 'til the flame
turns blue as around we go,
until our last breaths - no.
Save two.
Just in case we each
think of one last word.
So concise. Lock eyes,
let beelines be,
and dive in
one time: on
a count of three. To see
who burns first,
and who
in this merriest hell
were we.
I shamface confess with a pirouette turn through carefree air: I thought it was funny, too! But thanks too for the backup and test. 'Cause I doubted my judgment. I do that the best. I have reason to. It's pretty much what reason's for! In the critical faculties (observation, reason, judgment) doubting judgment is reason's primary almost sole function galore. Meanwhile observation's off like "doot-di-doo" not minding the store.
If you rock that balance from the top of your object mind, slam down to the bottom of heart, and let it bounce back up! to your hand-clap catch?
That's pretty much you in the sane. Some match
but it fits as it does. And it misses galore! 'Cause the way that aim kisses all targets is pure whether score is awarded, or wins handed out - you know by the target what the doubt of your judgment's about. See you've had more than share in that stake. More than most of good reasons to care, dare, doubt, brag, boast, shimmy-shake, but
when hindsight looks back and winks?! We get mad.
That ain't how I act no way mom dad
Karma is the world
you make for yourself,
of people who know
how you really are,
in what you give:
of yourself to know,
for them.
Shine on,
consistent star.
The ugly fancy fits and starts,
in unmade bed of senseless parts
to settle into rumpled sheets,
by stimulus we incomplete
in pattern-recognition spurts.
In children's minds of innocence,
hard-lit by cinematic light,
we spot something.
It slides right in.
It didn't hurt.
It's made-belief.
We're never even noticing,
until the world adds
one new piece,
and context keyhole finds
its key.
So sliding in insidiously
to hit
the back and turn, and turn,
as tumblers fall and click:
we learn.
The purpose of our knowing this
was all this fit, to turn to start.
Ignition switch has fired spark
to ramrod course down slippery slope,
desensitized to all off-road, we rocket
from the starting line. Abandoning
all prior hope, intent upon how horrible
the world's revealed to be,
oh no.
Not us.
Not me. It's all this stuff,
those understandings cracked,
misspent, I see
I have. To straighten out,
now
sorry!
go
and so
each story went.
There's a problem in America.
The problem is those black or dark
gray things you see littered or strewn
on sidewalks, by curbs, or just over
the curb in the street.
What are those things.
They're little teeny tiny and
some of them if you close-inspect
run to spiky, others far more round
and bumpy bulbous. They appear
to be just
shapes of some kind, nonliving
- where do they come from? Some
by-product, side effect? Do others
see them? I ask surreptitiously but
they do not answer. Do they answer
others? Who would put them there
and not tell why? Is it part of the
natural world, or another quirk
or consequence of artifice? It's
even possible it's not a problem.
If
there's no solution,
it's not a problem.
Just another feature
of reality
The question was
which pleonasm bothers me most.
Me, you hear! That’s rich.
I’m the superfluity express!
The paragon of excess
plus twenty percent gratuity, bristling
with gratuitous tips and tricks.
I sing the tangent electric! I jump
tracks on trains of thought, rail
and rerail all the way back
and recouple the left-behind cars
with a jolt that carries straight through
to the misplaced but suddenly regained
prodigal caboose (“oh yeah, that’s what
we were talking about eighty minutes ago!
Thank you that was killing me!”). Then
full steam ahead!
All aboard all hands on deck pulling
on down the line through direct
to the station.
Freighted
with more meaning
than strictly necessary, overspilling
all over on all sides - we done ourselves
proud, and the people
can take what they want!
The rest was necessary. But
we’re hardly interested in that.
Betrayed by his enemies,
stabbed in the back by foes,
he turned to his allies and colleagues and found
acceptance. Succor. Tolerance.
Love.
Faith,
hope and trust
in humanity restored! He
returned to his enemies, lesson
learned: I must just have
to trust these people.
That's what did it
before
That's what does it
always
The troubled production
of this film classic is
sheathed in layers
of myth and mystification,
anecdote and dogmatic
tenets and decrees.
The original director
- so his story goes - was
brought on under false pretenses,
and made the film what it was
so far. When the star signed
on, the whole focus changed
and the people became cynical,
not expecting such a move. But
the new director, once engaged,
brought a reputation for short,
brutish, underscheduled production
way on top of the budget
- a cinematic assassin,
much approved by the suits, if
considered by critics the greatest
and most technically-proficient hack
in the world - and she'd brought
her own screenplay, for a
different film. Reenergized,
redirected, restarred and revitalized
by the addition of a love interest
and an entirely different story,
setting, and much improved themes,
the film was prematurely released
before principal photography - a
scandal that remains treasured,
discussed, tut-tutted and mocked
by all those who saw the initial
theatrical run.
A cultural touchstone
unique in the annals. Upon deep
explanation and apology, the film
was re-released - this time shot,
but essentially
the same film
and was hailed
as an instant classic
forever - last year. Now.
A hard-hitting new
documentary and expose dares
to ask: can its legacy
survive daring revelations
and trenchant critical reassessment
on this,
almost the anniversary?
Of what became the most epochal
influential paradigm-shocker
the film world's seen since.
For the answer? Wait
for next year's installment
of what
has been
inaugurated as
an annual reexamination
of this
deeply-seminal workhorse
of a film. Popcorn anyone?
I have no bad feelings about you
No bad feelings surrounding you
No bad feelings towards you
Just a bad feeling without you.
It isn't a palpable negative,
just comparing the state
when you're here, versus gone
and noticing all of the differences
in values and balances
missing you
strong.
Music is really
amazing. The first
purely abstract art.
All this sound, never
before made. Sometimes
we stir in echoes and apes
of natural noise, but
for the most part
it's a new creation.
As really, was language.
But with so much life
at stake to begin with,
its arts were not meant
to be abstract. Never
the less and more galore,
we achieve with it some
extraordinary effect.
During the Civil War,
given widespread opportunity
to test the most modern understandings
of psychology and psychiatry in the field
in the field, measures were implemented
to ensure those who participate in war
are sane.
Benefits were immediate,
far-reaching, and
I just made them up, but
they had long had ways
to find out who is insane
when everybody has guns
and you tell them charge
over there
where everybody also has guns,
being as threatening about it
as possible.
It doesn't take a Sigmund Freud.
Besides, Sigismund
was like five at the time.
He hadn't even got his
doctor degree
All ye out, come in free!
I, the monster hunting thee
to trace and spot and eat alive
am harmless, now. Come in
and hide
The truth will set you free
but specifically, not generally.
And only from stupidity
you've discovered your error in
-definitely.
My beard is become a sail
to set self into wind.
I tack to the point it most resists,
and it fills me enough to grin.
The pressure and flap
against my chest
lets me know that I'm
not wrong.
My beard is
become a sail, and I
am a sailor of hair
so long.
The relief in being with someone you missed so long mind and heart had given up, gone on, is palpable. Even if this once most important piece no longer fits, you've grown so without within that you see clear - first time - why you valued it.
Thirst torments me even in small amounts.
I cannot get water. My tolerance is abysmal for wants I need, and I grow one goal. But pain is interesting. It fills me in one moment whole, and I have no need or want but to make it go. While it stays though, I find it compelling to know.
This is how
I determine
my writing
coherent.
I observe:
each point made, from basis to claim,
on merit:
of correspondence with truth,
discernible and demonstrable,
or that support's inane, unsane.
Unproof.
I measure: between and against,
by eye,
and I test
for conflict
inconsistency
discrepancy
contradiction
...with the whole,
with all parts
- in any and all
to see:
where I was unsmart.
If no point at any point catches
to wreck or distend the case,
or otherwise tends
to undermine, and supposing
some overall point is tended
towards and actually made,
it’s coherent.
An abysmally low bar! Really, coherence.
A case can be coherent, yet
- utterly wrong. That’s where
you bring external consistency
in. For coherence of a work, a case,
on its own: internal
consistency's enough.
For use in life, probably not!
Anyhow. I apologize for
my discursory manner. I recognize
in it a certain aesthetic wrong, by some
well-founded critic’s views,
and personal taste of gut and tongue,
and what’s more
I can’t disagree
with the justice
of their claims.
I understand the virtues in which their criteria
found, and are founded. There are, however,
other virtues. These, too have merit
and substance. Aesthetics, being
a matter of such taste, is supremely delicious
in my vulgar and screamingly bigoted view! I must
have
variety
or the equivalent! Or my palate grows nasty.
I must be the variety I lack in the world. Otherwise,
hey,
that
works too.
COHERENCE, my loves!
Let COHERENCE be your watch-word!
Mine is: “Doot-di-doo”
Criticism can only have positive value.
The substance part
is no aether, but hard
correspondence to reality. Truth!
Which is of use, potentially! Even
Bad truth is good to know. Without
that correspondence to reality,
you've misclassified. There
is no substance in't.
Separate substance
from sentiment!
Know which is which!
For if you do, criticism
can have only positive value.
Accurate, itty, bitty, summy party (whether
“positive’ or “negative” is what's immaterial)
is therefore useful! Or else it is useless, worthless
- harmless. Let worthless be harmless, and let
harmless be.
The sentimental part
can only be good. Who keeps bad sentimental
value, honestly? A neat little row
of golden poo trophies
up on the mantle
for solemn regard?
No room on the mantel
for such doo doings. Even
a box in the basement for them’s
a useless waste of space, get it out
by the curb - displayed proudly
before the world!
Better yet, don't even pick
that shit up in the first place.
Let it drift, nothing there for you
- no substance! Let worthless
be harmless, and
let harmless
be.
Still.
I can’t quite dispute
the sheer, yet diaphanous force
of the steely beam of just light
you dropped out of a dark cloud,
clonk
on my throbbing knot.
(Head)
It’s a fair cop.
“Coherence” is not really what’s being critiqued
here, but:
a lack of elegance.
Simplicity
is the sprung prong of elegance,
and must be observed. What is present
should be present for a purpose, and serve it.
What is present should be
what would serve in that place best,
the purpose of the whole. Each word
the best right word and none lesser. All
needless words omitted, as per Strunk
& White: all that does not serve, all
that is purposeless,
should be gone to ghost before any other eyes
than author-omniscient’s ever beheld such right,
mighty work.
Elegance
is above all spare, there is nothing extra
in it. Every spar
and strut bears weight,
in such a balanced way
the resulting edifice - rises
as if weightless! Borne up
in the light streaming through
its clear and unstained three-story,
clerestory or howevermany windows.
Now that’s a prose-job! Gotten up
on the populace for the express
purpose of their edification
whether they like it or not!
When you yank out a lead-weighted
sap like that and clap it across the back
of their skull just-so, they can’t help
but drop
like a sack of wet asparagus. Beguiled
by your elegant prose. Bravo,
author!
I won’t say I do it, or have ever done it.
I won’t even say that’s my aim. I will say
I’m a dab hand at blackjack.
My problem is I amble a bit too much. I love
too much
the view and the way, maybe. I love
finding ways out, and tumbling down
off them (it’s a bit of a bluff).
If all I say
does not conflict
or contradict with itself,
within its parts, if the whole
hangs together and is not at internal odds, then this
technically
suffices for coherence.
Incoherence is where no
point is made at all, where
parts are disarrayed
to no discernible aim, OR
where parts actively torpedo
each other to undermine the whole.
Psssh! Psssh! Psssh! BWOOOM
*glub glub glub*
That is not my problem,
though at a cursory examination
- due to the flourish outré
here and all through the oeuvre,
the tell-tale touch of elaboration present,
the as-I-call-it discursory
(portmanteau of “discursive” and
“cursory,” naturally, which means
whatever it suggests) character
of the progress as a whole - it may
be hard to spot the scheme's design.
Too much opulence. The diametric
"other end" of luxury's pole,
from the end at which
elegance simply sits.
There is a design, though, and it does
hold. If it doesn’t I should know the reason
why. I should be surprised to find
the point of direct conflict, pointed out
- surprised and gratified, and grateful
by the way, everywhere curiosity and wonder
are indicated!
No workman even so projectile-workmanlike
as I ever has so perfect a mastery over
his own gaffes and blunders as to doubt
even their possibility. I’m sure
awry and amiss
are not omitted
to perfect degrees
from my self-ostensibly kickass body
- of work that is, which includes
my body and brain, but more vision
and voice held in mind by aim. Yet
in a given piece of ass-kicked,
or slapped, or seized upon
and smothered with kisses
- I kick ass at that, but
call me no "kiss-ass" please
unless you want a smack
and know where, and
are prepared to bear
and bare it without shame,
shamelessly. I am,
though,
reasonably satisfied
in my monstrously critical eye: it hath
its flaws. But it does make a detectable case,
and it does not conflict in itself.
Not habitually, and fair reliably.
It is coherent.
Still. I’d hardly fault the critic whose eye
rests more heavily on those ungainly-to-some
surface deficiencies of style and ornament.
That opulence too profuse to be called tasteful!
This bareback riding of the living language
in a rude display of high-horsemanship too
unruly and indeed, uppity, to be called
"ennobling" to anyone. This ostensible
"super-equinimity" - as if to ride on iron
U's roughshod upon a horse above!
Or making flourish and bucking panache
in as-if a "higher horsemanship"
then the common! "Extraordinary!"
All call it who read that far! But
take it apart! Extra ordinary
is no more and no other than
abnormal!
Indeed, I’d thank such a critic profusely!
I’d offer him or her my shaking hand, fumble
out words of perfect true gratitude - sincerely,
I’d hand them a brimming and wobbling chalice
or goblet (their choice - the vessel with the pestle’s
got a kick to it!), overflowing with bright and
staining libation. Whoops! I done ya proud, there,
sorry.
Always happy to receive criticism. Criticism
is the ape of art, and makes away with it
as if rapaciously - yet the result? In defiance
of all the world’s mores - is a happy and lasting
union! And the baby they (art and critique) together
produce is a monster.
Hi
Ah, geez.
One rude glance up and down
the extent of this
is enough. The eye
picks up the tell-tales
- deeper scanning confirms the verdict:
This is discursion. Cursory,
digressive. A stream-of-consciousness
bilge-barge that slides
continually past us out in the harbor
as we wait by the raised bridge,
hoping for it eventually to be over!
Distracted by impatience,
examining the haul. Good
point made…other point
made, strong development
…sideslip into irrelevant
and soi disant “charming
or amusing” tangent…point A
made again…point C introduced,
relevance unclear but seemingly
-independently valid…point B
made again, far more strongly
…tangent
…PARABLE? An…apparently
parodic quasi-bible parable, which
illuminates the central case, if there
is one, only in the most garish, cinematic
German-Expressionist lighting and deep
startling shadow. Point C
made again! Relevance established
by some unsuspected back-door, point
A made again and we end on point B!
Bridge lowering! Go go go drive!
What did we think? In short,
it goes on too long and says both
too much too many times, and
too little too well - though to do it
justice, the too little it says too well
it does say too, too well. Almost
a little too too-too. Its preciousness
offends and belabors the eye! The
author
apparently
intends to make us the audience, japed
from the stage, by a magic trick far
too obvious to even bother spill the secrets
of! We know. He or she (in this case, he he he)
is frolicking and gamboling in the annals
and canals of language analytically, and
in top hat, cape, and combat boots to boot, and
- nothing else!
So arrayed, in foray far too often straying
into and through available ditches and mud-holes.
What is his purpose?
To entertain?
To self-indulge?
It’s bad enough to use English
in a masturbatory way to gratify
one’s own performative urges.
This fool
seems to think
he’s got a hand on
not his own but the language’s
junk! And is riding it like a hand-pony
to ignominious victory in a steeplechase
where the stakes could not be more low.
Or be more concise! It’s maddening.
Maddening.
I should not have had
to read all that
to get what I got out of it. If someone
clearly can write they ought to have
some obligation to quality. This
is not literature,
it is vomitus ejectae.
Yeah.
You and me both,
buddy. Nice fake Latin,
too.
Coming in home
from a longish trip,
I found a body
in my house. It was mine,
since nobody else lives
(or lived) there. I figure
if it ever used to be anyone
else's, it was mine now and
I didn't want it. My responsibility
ends nowhere. In all my life,
it's been mine to deal with,
like a cross or a burden of proof,
always. This fucking thing
won't be doing that anymore,
I guess.
The scene
of the evidence
keeps changing, since
every room I go into
the body is there.
Sometimes
it comes back to life,
making it all the harder
to explain. Stiff limbs
limbering and it feeds
itself automatically.
It gets by, apparently,
with a little help from my
mind and heart, and
I admit it's a little sad, now.
I picture it still alive,
whenever it's not. I just feel
like that would be a happier
way to look after it. Keep it
going, and fit, in between
rigor mortis bouts, where I
assure you.
Dragging that thing around
is no joke.
Even for a man my size, I
could use a little cooperation
from any body
that expects
to be in every room
I go.
Honestly, I
don't even know why it wants
to.
Squirrels,
squirreling things
about by hidden
hoard, in secret
nook, apparently
forget their place.
So cunningly do
mental notes slip
mindfully as leaves
from books.
And so our hungry critter
starts! In frantic scamper
of unknowns, in hopes
to find some fund
of nuts
Some squirrel hid
stupid, careless,
klutz. He finds!
But does not recognize:
he found his own,
and that -
is what
makes such a prize.
So busy squirrels
take stock and sock it
squirrelly ways,
to fill the world
with so much nuts
it really doesn't matter
whose. Whichever role
you play:
All-wise and miserly,
discovering another's
hoard - right where you
left it! Every nut here's
yours, old bean. All present
and accounted for. Or
You could be the wily thief.
You case the joint
where tree limbs split,
and slip right in
to find their nuts!
Exactly where
they've always been.
Ever since
you put them in.
Squirrels leave presents,
squirrels play games
and tricks in secret ways
on selves. It's just
a neat adaptive twist
to keep the world
as stocked as shelves.
I want us, instead of focusing
on the wants we had, and that
we have still, on all of this "what
we could be to each other" - I want
us
to step back,
and take our fill
of all that we are,
and have
and do not have to give,
but may wish! Since it's already
ours.
Right here in one's gift:
to another, to two.
No analysis.
No further examined reexamination
and inspection for suspect feature
perchance to flaw, perchance
to fall - and then scrambling
what do we do? No more.
None of that. No sequence,
no aim, no scales held
in balancing light, all wildness
and nothing to tame, to train
- not even of thought! Not even
a track to switch tangents
from. Just us. Just this.
Or for truest test:
only you.
From your subjective perspective
of course, only me. But that's
jejune, inutile stuff to point out,
dwell upon and eventually in,
raise not so much from foundation
as basement ("de basement" where
we like to hang out and giggle),
towering battlements and star
scraping spires of conjecture
fed by intellect shoveling heart
into soul's furnace and forge,
hoping for some homey, glowing
coals! Waste and disregard of
the real energy expense
and the power outpoured!
The intellect's a free king pyromaniac!
Whose scalpels are licking tongues
of flame, whose scopes and lenses
flicker and shift unpredictably, lost
in firegazing, consumed by ash
to smoke, and so to wood! - wait,
that's backwards. But so the intellect
goes in motions arbitrary. A backwards
reverse pyromaniac, subtly reasoning
back to cause: watching it all
unburn.
Let us seize the intellect for kindling!
Throw IT on the first available fiery
place! Dissect it! Subject it to rigorous
chemical and spectral analysis! Find out
what it's made of, and why it loves
pissing on the flames of emotion so,
and why it - it - wait.
Let us not and say we didn't.
We already did, between us, and
we have found to our woe: that
transcendent and annihilating
conflagration was nothing
to build on.
What I'm saying is, let's ditch
all that school biz and hit the beach,
to find what it is and why.
And what good it is.
What good are you,
I trust you already know,
but in case angles and aspects
escaped you into me, I will
let them out each in turn,
as I am struck again
by your seeming eyes.
I suddenly felt like I knew it all.
I hadn't felt that since the day
I left school and came back
the next day for a decade
and years. That
was the equally sudden,
decisive feeling like I
knew all I could take,
and
would have to make room
for so much needless more.
This was different, and make
no mistake on that. This was not
my usual beautiful clarity,
that knows in this moment I find
I am suddenly able and readily
willing to dive, fan out, ascend
and in fresh and direct apprehension
find out, into and all through
whatever there may be to comprehend,
full knowing I may not find what I see,
once just what I saw is revealed to me.
No, this was more full of such full
shit. Seamless and whole, I gasped
and grasped all of it, and began
to take it all in: by eyes, mouth,
ears, nose, anus and skin! I felt
quite suddenly
I knew it all.
And suddenly so, and so full
of myself I started at fits,
and bursting at seems,
so seamy and seemingly I
had to melt, and I felt
I must take up and sound
some call! To press little buttons
and hang upon rings, to belt
and to pelt some poor hearer
with all of the knowing I felt
- they could reach out to grasp,
and finger and thumb the softness
and nap of the fine-find felt
that I'd pelted them with. Admire
the color, inspecting the width.
Put it on, forthwith! They can belt it
themselves if they wish, that's none
of my business attire.
At least I would know they'd go
'round better-dressed, or at least
best-equipped in the wardrobe,
sire.
The feeling was lost, almost
at once. I otherwise than so wisely
began a poem, to capture and rapture
it whole. And then - my mistake!
I laughed my ass off! At myself,
so the frame fairly cracked in the first
place I saw (in retrospect) had to break
and fall, to bell-like shards.
Still, too late. I have that frame
in me now, known just as it was.
I had it at once, and you know what?
It's really not hard. So I guess
and bet, suspect and reckon that
if there's some use or purpose
that fits - I'll pop out in the yard
and play with it!
Until it clicks.
There was an amazing tree
in our garden last week.
I don't know where it came from!
Out of gathering dusk I suspect,
it gathered each beam and glow
of light up into its canopy,
sure and bright
by warming degrees
of dusky gold,
and oranges limned
each branch and limb,
and rose bloomed forth
as the sun unrose -
from all of the light
it had kept within.
It vanished, of course.
Such trees always do.
But I bet if I catch
the garden awares
this evening or next,
by late afternoons
stretching out by degrees,
I'll find it there.
I can't change the book,
or put it down.
No matter how many times
through, immersed
in such moments, hope
grown invincible, page
by page.
No matter how many times
to the same end inexorably
we come, and always came,
and always would come. Again
and again.
You'd think with foreshadows
dogging each path as we dart
in memory, winning and beating
odds all the way, same as us,
same as us always - you'd think
I would have or gain a sense
of what was always coming. It
never comes, because if I'm honest
- I had that sense first time through.
I do have a sense I am honest. And you
are more honest still, every each time
through - since we always were.
Eyes accelerate, pulse overrates
the stimulus again as I near and reach
and grasp the end. The End. Same as.
Each time
I put the book down, lay
myself aside and I say
quite sure: it can't
end like this.
It can't end like this.
And I reach for the book
once more.
Foreplay is fine. And
one should always clue
to the other's cues, to go on
- if I am one. And I am.
And,
she is too.
But we know
between us
the worth of a dalliance.
This
here,
now
what we do,
is no perfunctory stone.
To skip lightly across,
or entirely
on the way to go
jump in a like. Take
up kite flying instead!
If that's your leer -
long string, short pier.
For we are long peers
and gaze,
and approach,
and consummation is
a step itself
which can be placed
in many ways.
Drunken wind
and sidewalks furl.
Upon all sides
the darkness shines
as I reel in
my moorings still.
A long way home,
and feeling quite
at home
adrift
the whole
long way in parts
forgotten
past recall
in starts that fit
by puzzle piece, as
consciousness
closed into
kill.
Sharpened moments,
gravity
shift and catch
necessity
between long instants
unabsorbed. Rolling off
like tides off shores.
Not even feeling slightly
ill.
Nor touching sleep,
not here, not yet,
it's not the place
for that I bet.
In motion still,
we can't
forget.
Until front door
blooms huge and real
and green,
and key snicks in to turn,
and pushing through.
Straight out to yard,
safe under stars!
So long I yearned.
