While Poets Dive Because of the Weather
Poetries are screeching in the treetops at readjustments. It sets itself apart from the restatement of us. They want the birdcage to be our anger; we want an hourglass or 45 miracles in the ken of genre; but, “We are doing something wrong.”
If theirs was a villager and the wallabies were burning we would pave to hear the birdcages screeching because their wires made firearm’s blossom. “They need a campaign songbird.”
“The firebomb needs a campground sonnet” while the secretariat vice-chancellor is our synod: “a birdcage in the treetop can and must be heard as anger.”
The firebrand needs a champion sop. I think, therein, lieutenants posit shifting the landslide of interpreter into an indeterminate gab. Is this un-collapsible distension necessary for the immediacy of our misreading? The good ditty? Who’s readjustment?—Birdcage or anger?
And then activists empty temperature readings and chimeras; plenipotentiaries trespass actions of empty temptation, while winners on firebreak, behind a ledger shuffling paper, and into the middle, sink their inscrutable sophistries.
What are they doing so far away from the firebreak of the bird’s sophistry?
Pogroms are screeching in the treks at realists. I’m oleander with the incomprehension of my motors and inclusions. I value poinsettia as a foul, a social sitter where cultural polka can be dreamt and acted almost in the same instigator. The sect video is our cook that a birthmark in the tremor can and must be heard as an animator.
We want the birthright to be our ankle; we want a housefather or 45 misapprehensions in the ken of gentlewoman; but, “We are doing something wrong.”
If I were a villain and the wallets were screeching because their wingspans were on fire, then acronyms of empty tellers would launder, or chunk privately pleased at something, detect the many sonnets within a sonnet and all the while apotheosize the birth who has found, deftly, its trellis.
This witch-hunt is an absurdity compelling our convolution to believe in its valley. The secretary victim is our curlicue that a birdie in the trek can and must be heard as an angle.
We want birth to be our angler. We want a housecoat, a post for shifting the landslip of post-shiftings. We will punctuation onto explanation, and polecats happily oblige. (At all times, it is the polecat. The panthers have been boxed in purple). Yet, what about those acres of empty temperament that set the children though?
I’m omnibus with the incompletion of my motorways and increments, opal of my moults and indentations.
Poetries are screeching in the treetops at readjustments. They set themselves apart from the restatement of us. We want the birdcage to be our anger; we want an hourglass or 45 miracles in the ken of genre; but, “We are doing something wrong.”
Gay-Boy Communist Manifesto
Aristocratically, to be real, I behave at home alone with
my Communism.
It is best if neither it nor my behavior is reciprocat
-ed any.
Private affairs have always been my strong suit—do
please tell me.
I’ll show you my Communism—one-day maybe--
But you’d be lucky to see it.
Really lucky, not to mention, if you’d touch it too, for
suffocating friendly users are superb constructions.
So I dare you, touch it, just a little on the buckle.
Untitled
It’s a circuitous path to knowledge of the blue canvass, stippled with grey bird remarks, left for dreamers awake from the mass-drowning dream. Critics come out in clown-dog finery, positing everything in golden morning fury. Their hats are askew and they are busy fixing them. Then, recalcitrant, Russians come up from the bunker, passing canvasses back and forth among women and children. Several grey birds remark the many intersections of any conversation, growing possibilities for interference. That was yesterday; we all had regretful tattoos just above the ankle, solid and atmospheric like a cold day. As they fade, the world will mistake them as our birthmarks. We will want to recall an original blue, as we are young and need greater practice. It is a tone easily forgettable, but at once, recognizable. Without interning our fatal tenacity, its balance, therefore, its persistence, this will charm memory’s bug out of the linen. Small incisions are all hoped for as grey bird remarks bend distant and foreign.
Pretty Boy Blues
Start first with a continent of prayer. Not mere wish making, but blood’s hunger pining. Suddenly you are in place and what’s next looks commoditized, so impossible. In-between is the trick. The fortress turned out. The prince’s cloak burnt. The rest, a yard sale where desperate patrons shift pewter remains under showing sunlight, abiding unlooked for old lessons. We make of living daily life and of death countless stories. There’s an imbalance, a thread. Even now, you’re ahead of the pack. A feudal wizard points ahead to some dark wood, beyond which a vexed sea mad at its containablity gnashes hotly, gaining some immeasurable ground on ground. But of course this is not a parable; it is much more playful.
Yet movement is illusion also from tall buildings everything spreads in all directions at once a geography of frequencies, a sequence bowling into and opening upon the body becomes itself a map, a rope to the social is not so much a curse as a continual revisit, the counterpart—perhaps to see this: there are no adequate speechmakers, and thus and thus, the lake pregnant with ice makes no discernable waves. In-pen-etr-able. Broken into smaller pieces, it becomes more remote, manageable and consumable, like currency. Count the blessings, there is always the impasse, the faux pas: seeing the stagehand’s ankles beneath the curtain, sensing the fold, and then you’re in the joke’s web. So error leading always to more or less error. The blessed then are those most mistaken. A retreat is always toward something known, a trench, a fire.
Do not be coy; this face has value, stock rising. The index of things becomes the event. The privilege of being is talked about in small circles, in hushed tones to intimate seriousness, like talking about cancer. And the death of it made part of daily living so everything in the yard is on sale for drastically reduced prices, ½ off, two for one, cold cash and happy. Do not be coy; it’s just a smiling face, pretty because it knows the world before, and does not dream your dreams, does not hear the bloody Sirens singing. Good night, good night. Adieu.
Good Night.
In Over our Heads
Of sight, is sorrow, leading to belief: four senses should redeem all variation, colorings, where otherness resides. Though we want to incant—which incantare (expressing intensive force)—there is only the sayable. Alienable becomes a virtue. Yet, leading is still one directional. The old masters were masters in repeating, as if to say one thing many times made one a master, an extension of sorts; or, to master is one thing only, a service of exchange.
It all happens in cherry blossom weather. The view from the kitchen affords the lake, the garden, the black cat crouching below where the mitzuna is or was. Lovers meet there too. Blushing face-to-face and departing, their shadows fall equally aslant on white and green hillsides bunkering opposite shores. Let’s call them Reason and Wonder, an old trick, an opening into. With them, all beloveds depart the garden. The shoddy weeds come home again. A line is draw, the place is known.
And the giveness of wind finding moor posts where ice clings (the posts set in summer when the lake bottom was silt). The ice hugs the shore in winter, the water a black open mouth, an inverse moon. A tugboat beating back against the breaking waves. Little tippler, the captain is said to like his hooch. Trundling forth, appearing here, and then there. The tugboat is remembered best by its smoke, the bundle of trees it takes north, the cut of its engine coming back south at night.
Reason and Wonder meet only once. Wonder was lost in the forest that closed behind it. It could no longer see for the world before it. Reason pulled stones from the lake bottom with its bare hands. The threat of happiness complicates everything. Obligatory disclosure, titular to what’s there. And the olive skinned boys come out to fight with their kites and speak indecipherable tongues.
Not Even
I was saying something about dick replacement—or did I say enhancement?—just as confusion settled in and the joke peeled open a word people like us never say. The return to laughter was a headline you never finish reading because the ending punctuation tells all you need to know. There was no eight steps, or the slight pantomime with the hips, to get things back into place. Nor did I really want to go back there. We were jogged out of sorts when “dick replacement” fell in our laps and the porch light of our genitals flickered madly at each other. Precisely when I wanted to tell you I fantasize about sucking cock just to see the weather change in your face I knew the waltz was with something else, something more barbaric, something that doesn’t courtesy this kinda foray. Not that the many Thai restaurants in the neighborhood that are good are bad, but I don’t think they serve our kind, you know? We’re better wandering in the hilt of it, where everything is a palindrome, even the wrinkles in my face, connecting time to time. Reading in either direction still succumbs to talking of our bodies in metaphors about drifting land where the process of collision and absorption is so slow only years later can anyone tell by the fragments stuck in the throat and the fault lines shaking loose in every promise henceforth.
Saying Two or More Things
1.
To have only
part of metaphor,
black, unflinching, unassimilated—
the opening eye
relational truth--
break apart “can”
flaming green pigeons an ongoing
and talking
equal signs between everything?
A rain-blotted horizon,
every joke in its jersey,
bowing obsequiously in
high wet grass, eventually
falling into conjunction,
groping
total allegory, touching
touching.
The fist of movement,
serial incentive.
2.
The placard on the back of the bathroom door had three languages: Spanish, English and the gouged out neologisms of youth. There is a fight there. There is an agreed upon self-repulsion that eats all the hot air out of things if it meant we would be getting somewhere, somewhere home and ivory and smelling warm, where voice is bone and the gray field inhales us, smelting any two points in either direction into a new super breed, edgy, dangerous, for it is innocent yet. And the instructions will read, if met in public, shoot it in the head, then quarry it. A whetstone and allusion, the yeoman performs the sharpening.
It’s Just ignorant & I don’t like It
not of one owns making
total solution rather than applicable resolution
that thing of need, where, the space then
a product maps no function, only junctions in grammar
abstract as this may sound it is not
call it image passing
call it image pissing in location
call it image marking
(we have no function here
It cannot make any more water.
Arial perspective photos of ancient temples, maybe a pantheon, lets me know the sudden impossibility, the endurance, of where I stand. So much thought and work in brick and stone and stack there, I’m wont to think only fire makes more.
Where does the frontier as a prior criterion decide it’s done disclosing risky business?—Done disclosing vectors of where limits and habits tend to dwell?
A grey bird is a piston is a pillar is taut resonance that buzzes locally. Buzz porch. Buzz court. Buzz here girl. I am all fair trade. Buzz Buzz. I am not an engine.
Call it sandbagging.
In crossing any territory, everything turns into a mute witness. The reciprocal calibrations downtown suggest new niches and news circulates. “I feel like a brand new man” spreads through the cafés. “I have news: My body is capable of the worst violence.” “I have rage,” English learners sometimes mistakenly say. What do we disclose daily and less graceful than we’d admit? Accidents or recipes?
If you’re arrested say we’re stuck in the mirror stage.
New Rules for the Use of Space
1.) No Hot-Dogging around here, Boy. I'm just too old for this shit.
2.) How far back can you move those chairs? Will they fit over there?
3.) Now the hand recomposes itself into an indelible sign. What did you say?
4.) He did say "Jew" York. Did they laugh. You bet your ass.
5.) Copula comes home and wants accretion.
6.) Oh Jeez, the broken BAT-STICK.
Untitled
I really love Baseball
on the radio
at night
forms a close voice
made purely
of numbers
dismissing sequential
thinking
poets have loved
Baseball in Language
for 100 yrs
which is culture making?
Fear of Public Speaking
Podiums understanding
Events of pure sensibility
Saddling the edge, a wooden wheel
Wheeling always under and under again.
The doctrinal preposition, of.
Dwell and attend, the best model another concentration
Of light. Repeat: Dwell, attend…
—what must we do?--
I will put on the green hat,
Get in the car and
Toward the hospital,
Where the sick,
Dying and dead are kept,
Ask questions, report back.
But first, I brush my lips with the reddest, red lipstick,
To speak any other way is baseless, is naked talk,
A wet paper bag full of seashells.
If one goes on repeating, all there is is sound.
So hum home to sense the apparatus
Of a closed mouth. Carry forth for
Only the carrying of forth, for the open goal.
Un-kept, memory’s need of the animal,
The body’s history dwelling interminably,
Location’s necessity.
So build boats. Bamboo boats with conversations
About god inscribed on every blank sheaf.
I will, with no oars, no sails, no offing set by
Call to the tower. I can call to anywhere,
Though I must wash my lips first,
For the beginning air turning red also.
The Haviland Tradition
Driving into the interior, found the same old, inherited prohibitions; something more about the acquisition of land over, or, against narrative reconstruction, which
is, simply put, someone’s history. Celebrants inform possibility. Lines still arrange the whistle and saggy innocence, not to be mistaken for a missing finger-bowl.
To his shop came many of New York’s prominent families to choose the china—that with great talent and interest--
And certainly zeal enables shape, one that satisfies taste and wets appetite. White has no echo in any other color. One little package seemed insignificant enough; it held only a broken cup.
Coming out in my own way, found houses designed after the flag, that pretense of hunger, or worse, the results of a reflexive practice. St. Yriex knew the value of kaolin without the fortune of accident. American ideas accord. Lay down in the mud, got up to follow pressure through.
As Mr. Haviland took the cup in his hands, he began to be impressed by it. He could tell at once that it had come from France. But from what part…Examine it as he did, the cup had absolutely no mark of identification.
In the manner we drove, my expectations were up. There’s only so much love I can make, as did the Romans really name The Themes?—And countering the first word in the Anglo-Saxon tradition, does absorption do that much? Can’t get out of what blood started—all that, eventually, terms switch eventually, too.
He knew crossing the Atlantic of this unique china many disappointments where for seventy-five years china had been manufactured, therefore, installed everything necessary to change the china demonstrations of protest when they saw apprentices being shown famous artists of their day and encouraged them to use their talents to make this new decorating a memorable achievement.
Inception as a rule of two makes not feeling location’s equipage more like home, to wit, devoted to the production. Range of color stands abruptly for feeling ridiculous, to that effect he put the kinds of china dinnerware services on with ever-higher standards of artistry and craftsmanship.
We worked hard staying put—decided on a landscape that didn’t include us. Teachers and apprentices often had to go through the centuries to realize its merits and considerably improved the pleasure followed through.
Getting out was a chore, for the forms of failed dispersal hung around, measured each shadow spotted with its old promise.
Let me ask, what doesn’t have a sexual bank of images?—Public Chic (a.k.a lowbrow discomfiture—a.k.a historic appellation?
O! turn it around in his obstinate fingers there was nothing romantic to do but go in rewarded of a very wide divergence.