Friday, April 28, 2017

Your Part


Split phrases – frightful tricks –
that wield delusions of an inner sight:

speciously oblique. Reconfigure all your
arbitrary blasted bits (enjambments

meant to make them look uniquely “deep”)
back to all the prosy paragraphs they

clearly came from: ha! – as if you could let
meaning seep into the thing through

dazed manipulation, lazy laissez-faire:
inertia in the guise of daring: lasered from

some underground you found by merely
typing ‘til your fingers hurt. Your zingers?

Scraps: concatenated dust and easy dirt.
Sins and egoisms in the name of “art.”

There: you did your part.
You stung the heart. 



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Wednesday, April 26, 2017

Amass, Amass!


I used to be Display – but now
I am a Crucible where every day
I melt my Being till it’s irreducible.

All I had before was bling. I wore
a regal ring designed to show I was
the king of what I was the king of.

I could play and fight and write
and sing: I wore diplomas for my
shirts and diapers: lashes wiped

my window eyes, sweeping clean
each surface of each pupil to regard
my shiny world in duple. But now

I've lost my every scruple – that is
to say, I can't recall whatever way
I thought I had to navigate the day.

Now my selves take turns relaxing
on their shelves and leave
whatever’s left of me to be and do.

What does it do? Sits on its ass
and dreams of what it next can
effortlessly count on to amass.



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Tuesday, April 25, 2017

That Most Extraordinary Miracle


They haven’t come out yet when I’ve known why.
I know my task: absently to coax them into being.
This appears to be enough to get them fleeing
from my hand into some other land whose business
they seem instantly to understand more than I do.
My task is not to ask or to pursue. And so I watch
their panoply without a single particle of certainty
and finally it’s fine. I long ago not only learned
to know that nothing, least of all these creatures,

could remotely be construed as mine – now I love
the utter irresponsibility of having absolutely nothing
more to do than to inveigle them into their birth.
Let them conquer their own Earth. But sometimes,
something like a warm relation climbs into my heart
when two are born and meet and are enthralled.
I don’t believe this has to do with having midwifed
them into some more successful “art,” at least on
my part, than would normally befall them. But when

an indeterminately gendered bearded humanoid
made an encounter with a long-limbed short-necked
bird cartoon – when I watched them look into each 
other’s eyes, saw both soon realize they didn't have 
to be alone – that they had seen (and somehow not 
been thrown by seeing) that extraordinary miracle:
an Other – and when I understood that they were
there not least because I was – perhaps I got
a glimmer of what it may be to be a mother.



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Monday, April 24, 2017

Peter Pan and Tinker Bell in Hell


“And so, one must soon understand to take, if not
on faith,” says Peter Pan the Grown-Up Man,” then
on innumerable instances of qualitative evidence, that
there are realms of what, through other more subjectively,
sophisticatedly attuned and therefore profitably sensitive
recalibration, do turn out to be discernments which amount
to practicable crucial information on ephemera which with
a subtle but important weight bear down upon what to dislike
or like – data, if you’d rather – which emphatically will drive

the killing spike into the heart of that great blight of fake
vampiric smarts within whose scope assessments of more
esoterically aesthetic testaments and objects, casts of mind,
dimensional approaches among other traits, effects
and contributions (à la carte) which broach those questions
only recognized inside the wide and deep precincts of what
one calls ‘the arts’ – dreamed-of or materially realized –
whose sizes, sighs and cries not only can’t be registered
or understood but sensed at all in their entirety or parts.”

(A scent like tiny coalescing farts
balloons into the room,
as light as Tinker Bell once was,
but with a nasty buzz.)

“What’s that smell?”
asks Tinker Bell

(who, now heavy with the weight
of twenty-seven faerie ladies,
hadn’t yet divined they
were in Hades):

“Smells like Hell.”


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Saturday, April 22, 2017

A Solitary Family of Happiness


Happy is the child of hap – a hapless happenstance
engendered in the lap of luck. Fluctuating weather
of the soul that spins the thing of you and keeps
it in the bowl. Your luck is always good.
You’ve never not been happy.

Always good? you bray – stupefied too many ways,
you say, remotely to convey the full array of fact
that proves I’m full of crap. Never not been
happy? Always in a state of bliss?
Kiss my abyss.

To me it’s merely this. I imagine I’ve a choice: a voice
in granting all irregularities to coexist – peculiarities
to feed and interbreed. Which of course they
always and already do. I permit the fiction
to get underway that I have agency

in the maneuvering of me – soon to see to my abject
delight I don’t. And oh, the gorgeous fleet release
in knowing that I can’t and won’t be able
to direct a thing. Since things don’t
need direction or a pep-talk-

patting-on-the-back (nor penises instruction in erection,
come to that), inevitably awkwardly assembled
as they are by what the cosmic dice begat,
I’ve never not exactly been what I will
always be: a this and that.

Which hap’ly I acknowledge as the child I have fathered/
mothered/sired/suckled into hapless happenstance.
Randomly a wild desperado, mild model
of finesse and sappy mess. I am
a solitary family of happiness.



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Thursday, April 20, 2017

He’d Named His Hairdo Ruth


Few dare to praise his hair.
It isn’t that he doesn’t care.
He cares, it can be said,

more than a little that nobody
gives a jot or tittle for the effort
and the art it took him

to construct the sneaky part
he’s combed into the back –
to raise a certain curtain

on a metaphor for splitting hairs
in service of – alas, alack!
perverse misreadings of

the Cosmic Law. His hair
is a defense against this heresy:
a headlong vault into awakening

whatever passersby might be
induced to notice its implied
assault on immorality:

on the gestalt the current
zeitgeist thinks is truth.
He’d named his hairdo Ruth.




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Wednesday, April 19, 2017

Being Him


Wants to wreck things.
Rip pictures off the wall.
Kick out the windows. 
Run screaming down the hall
that everyone’s an asshole

and should fuck himself
and die. He’s not sure why.
Psychologically he knows
you want to decimate externals
when what’s kicking butt

are the infernally internal
prisons of the mind. Vision
dims to darkness: everything’s
not fine. Today he’s filled up
to the brim with being him.



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