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.
