Wednesday, March 30, 2011
The thing that doesn’t want to be
is stuck here for what feels, to it, like an eternity –
which guarantees, of course, it’s not:
but rather merely lots and lots of undesired time.
It’s locked into its vast inarguable premise
that it didn’t ask for this. It is devoid of fear –
which might at least have lent it focus.
One might suppose that its inertia
would result in some repose, but no rest nourishes:
indeed, not one thing flourishes –
not even hatred, fury or psychosis. Sometimes
it daydreams (since it never sleeps)
that some thrombosis might deliver it
from having to exist: but it creeps through
another eon and persists. Its blood runs ruthlessly.
It seems to know that once you’ve come,
you cannot go. At least not for a trillion trillion
trillion trillion trillion trillion years* or so.
*“…By the time the universe is 1 trillion trillion trillion trillion trillion trillion years old, the black holes themselves will disintegrate into stray particles, which will bind loosely to form individual "atoms" larger than the size of today's universe. Eventually, even these will decay, leaving a featureless, infinitely large void….”
Tuesday, March 29, 2011
The relic of a passion, fashioned carefully
by hand – too many years ago to understand –
remains in situ: not a statue, just a bust –
come upon by accident (if there is ever
such a thing) – emerging in the dust on the long
shelf that lines the edge of the abyss of self.
You see it there and without thinking, pick it up
and press it to your lips: the kiss brings to it
a small flushed fairy tale exuberance, lit
from within – as such phenomena have always
been, two layers down in a dimension still
illuminated by a pleasure close to sin. Memory
is Galatea, glowing – sometimes – unpredictably –
as if to call you to embark: then growing dark.
Monday, March 28, 2011
The mind’s a wilderness of witnesses.
We’d like to think they come to guard,
forewarn, protect, exert what internecine
subtle nudges they can breed in us
through neurotransmitters and hormones –
or via other strange synaptic thrashings
prod a range of bright obliquely useful
dreams – but I have come to think
it seems they’re merely here to see.
Why they have an interest is beyond me.
Perhaps, for them, it’s fun. Every time
I shut my eyes I see another one.
Sunday, March 27, 2011
Saturday, March 26, 2011
Friday, March 25, 2011
Bubble babies sometimes drift into the psychic sky –
precipitants precipitately wash the inner eye –
they come to touch identity; that is, when they’re allowed:
summoned by some drum, their soft collective cloud
of influence – precise and light, unsentimental –
permeates and lifts resistance to the elemental:
gathers up the static of self-scrutiny, and pulls it
into something sleeker – a little freer of the bullshit.
Slowly, knotted tangles evanesce a bit: don’t vex
quite the way they used to about aging, death and sex.
Thursday, March 24, 2011
Wednesday, March 23, 2011
Your anguish is a beaten ghost in his late teens
who’s bound his worst parts up into a lightly
bleeding gangrened little mummy. He offers it
to you to keep, to place it by your pillow while
you sleep, to let its glum effusions leak out through
its bandages to queer and tweak the atmosphere
and drag whatever happened back then here.
Sneaky silent cosmic laughter in the wings attends
your deepest sorrow incrementally. Eventually,
on some morrow, possibly before you die,
although it may be later, sick emissions from
the pent-up glop will finally have stunk sufficiently
to reach the top hilarities of sky: excite, incite, ignite
a greater volatility in soul and mind and eye than
you could possibly have known. You will be blown
to smithereens, and free that sorry spirit in his
teens, and blast the whole exactitude of crap
into a cloud of holy shrapnel. Bye-bye hell.
Tuesday, March 22, 2011
They say whenever any creature
meets another, each picks up
quick clues that point to whether
they should run away – or kill
or fuck or eat it – or compete with it
to kill or fuck or eat. Desire
for domination seeks varieties
of conquerable breathing, mobile
meat. Other living flesh therefore
invariably constitutes potential
prey. That’s what they say.
But I have seen them play.
Monday, March 21, 2011
Pretty woman seen conversing on a couch,
her fingers on the gray fur of a sleeping tomcat on her lap:
is there a more completely human thing to see? –
to watch her looking into her dim middle distances –
to spot her swimming through her inner life – all while
she talks to you and me? I wish we could recall the words:
perhaps she was rehearsing what she’d tell
her dumb ex-boyfriend “really happened,” or expounding
on the more confounding aspects of the Fermat Theorem,
or working out particulars of how to bring about
the secret serial destruction of a team of Wall Street CFO’s?
We’re almost tempted to suppose she wasn’t telling anybody
anything at all: but simply sitting in the thrall
of her existence, promising her cat a cassoulet for Saturday.
Perhaps it doesn’t ever matter what we say.
Sunday, March 20, 2011
Saturday, March 19, 2011
Friday, March 18, 2011
I catch it only clumsily,
this face that sometimes comes to me:
bright visible glissandi adumbrate its path –
kaleidoscopic shards of it – a fractal math
in Chartres-worthy stained glass color –
make its glory even fuller
than the last time it arrived.
It seems to have derived
from dark demanding need –
hard to tell from greed –
although I do not know if it is mine.
The little thread I give you here is but a tiny vine
amid an Amazonian rich growing thickness –
surging forward with a quickness
that suggests synaptic power.
All I have to do to see it flower
is to shut my unresisting eyes.
And there it sometimes is, insisting on surprise.
Thursday, March 17, 2011
Today life is a big ripe woman with a past –
alluring unapologetic mass of inconceivabilities
with an enormous gorgeous ass on which
you are invited now to plant your lucky lips –
watch her roll her ample hips and jut her perky nips
around beneath a see-thru sky-blue negligée,
warm intimacies of which you’d be crazy
not to slaver to assay. Assay away.
Wednesday, March 16, 2011
Today I am the pot
and I’m the wonton soup
inside it and I stir it to a simmer
over flames that I am too
and when it’s ready
or I’m ready
or the implements I also am
I will steadily consume
by a spoon
resemblance too uncannily
to me not to be me.
run amok? (Don’t ask
me whom I fuck.)
each thought and thing
to which I bring the least
attention so completely
that there’s nothing left
but my bereft
Or else it’s all untrue,
and I am you.
Tuesday, March 15, 2011
Purgatory is a state of mind
run by minor functionaries.
You know the kind:
self-important, full of facts,
like thumb tacks. (Ouch!)
Grouchy, arch, pretentious
of inadequacy: how effortlessly
they remind us of our lowly
station! Maybe they deserve
Cultivating woe to such
a fine extremity, their incapacity
seems infinite: they may not
know the way to go, but oh,
do they know how to stay!
Let’s tip our beanies
to these meanies.
Then let's get the hell away.
Monday, March 14, 2011
Today I looked up at a tree
and it looked right back down at me:
with mild curiosity
a whiff away from glazed indifference –
maybe not untouched by some covert
belligerence which I suspect always
obtains between two utter aliens.
I harbored no opinions strong
or pertinent enough to share:
it didn’t seem to care.
I’m glad, however, it is there.
Sunday, March 13, 2011
They say you don’t know anything
if you don’t know its inexplicability
and bliss, as if we ought to thank
whoever “they” are for allowing us
to sniff that pot of piss. You once
adored a man with such immensity
that it stuffed every thing which wasn’t
him into a pin-sized airless hole,
which quickly got as hot and swollen
as an abscess. Unholy messes teach
no lesson. Confession and release
are said to lease you happiness but
who knows what the hell that means.
The thing still leans into you like
the stone that blocked the tomb.
(Cliché rhyme with womb.) You know
nothing you can say. And yet you hold
out for the damned thing every day.
Saturday, March 12, 2011
Friday, March 11, 2011
It’s got it bad for you.
It’s at the ready
with a steady flow of what it knows
you want to hear –
what matters. It flatters
with dispassionate, arresting authenticity –
relates its observations, calmly,
of your finer traits. It plaits your virtues
in a verbal braid which it parades before you –
touch of shyness –
touch of sass.
Knocks you on your ass.
of seduction! Involuted
geologic pushes, pulls which quake
and snake down through the center:
unrelenting! – twist and overlap
until you can’t resist.
It’s got the key to your locked door!
Until one day you blink and look around,
relieved, that it’s
no longer lurking,
looking for you
Thursday, March 10, 2011
Wednesday, March 9, 2011
He wonders at what strange requirement –
what surreal change in the environment –
he’ll have to undergo in his retirement:
as if there ought to be a time when you
should laisser-faire yourself into
effluvia and goo –
thence to rust –
crumbling into crust
Clearly no one else is jealous.
how you’ll hang him on a trellis
and how he’ll try to find it fine
to drip like wine
in the sun
not exactly having fun
considering the option of a gun
soiling the lawn
from dawn to dawn
until he’s gone.
Tuesday, March 8, 2011
Movies made in 1950 act like they discovered grim.
Dragnet Boulevard, dank film noir: an ostentatiously neurotic hymn
to grinding existential clichés of despair: rabid Robert Ryan – he
with badgered Barbara Stanwyck flee in black-and-white spite: Irony
all undertaken in an undertaker’s accents: laid on with a trowel.
Wipe their rank sweat off with Fred MacMurray’s towel.
Let it moan and groan on, though,
on Turner Classic Movies’ show:
post-war sociology – or art – or crap,
it makes a lulling background to a nap.
Monday, March 7, 2011
Truth be told, one didn’t know at first
what ought to have alarmed one –
was the gleaming flow and run
of verdigris that eased from those
limp glowing limbs (thin stream
approaching flood) its shedding blood? –
or did it herald the involuntarily untaxed
release of pheromones as it relaxed? –
did it feel pleasure? – or was it
an engorged attack: a measure of green
poison which would joylessly bring wrack
and ruin through one’s skin to all one’s
vital organs – rout it out and in?
(One thought one ought to have been
naked while inspecting it: one didn’t
want to stain one’s clothes. One
therefore had disrobed.) Correct
inspection by one species of another
surely ought to summon one’s great
sympathy and courage: good intent.
However, once again, one’s rapt
investigation led to naught (who knows
what a desire to connect requires?):
one’s curiosity was spent. Still
one shan’t repent. One wants to open
oneself, as one can, to the unknown.
Perhaps one’s next encounter will
result in one’s not feeling so alone.
Sunday, March 6, 2011
Out of the blood-red cosmos of her realm,
the goddess Glitchitatta takes the helm
by conjuring imaginary creatures as her friends –
thus to distract her from the terrifying ends
to which existence in her haunted universe
appears to doom her: that its curse
from which she cannot extricate her being
must imprison her to the eternal act of seeing
that not one scintilla of a thing will last
more than a nanosecond: one swift blast –
too fast! – her least small prospect of affection
will proceed to the irrevocable dark defection
every atom must by some cruel fiat make.
She’s wielded godly astrophysics: tried to quake
a revolution in the aberrant perverse mitosis
that prevents all stuff from staying. That psychosis
finally became her fate should not surprise.
But she has so astutely managed to devise
a non-existent family of souls of such immensity
that they have generated adequate intensity
to travel through her Universe’s membrane into ours.
And this has granted us imaginative powers.
It is inarguable that we owe a debt to her, in part,
for that stark inexplicability we label “Art.”
Saturday, March 5, 2011
Let’s play among the things that slink
and think they know what’s going on
beyond the brink: let’s sink into the kink of their
green steamy world, surrender to their twirled
dark dreamy internecine paranoia:
and enjoy a stark wet brush with the confusion
of the wanton rush of a conclusion
that if we don’t voice the proper choice –
alight upon the right decision based on all
the cloudy imprecision of a trust in absolutely
nothing sure, that we’ll endure, until we can’t,
the crush of an intolerable sentence, so untouched
by any application of repentance, and so weighted
down by semiotic shroud-y sludge, lush chants
of cant and easy idiotic rhymes like these,
that no one could begrudge the satisfaction
of our yearning to be put out of our miseries:
let’s drink insentience from a sentence
quite as long as this, and see if we
can stand a taste of its abyss.
Friday, March 4, 2011
Thursday, March 3, 2011
Life is a condition of existence, nothing more.
Death is senseless metaphor:
a simultaneously shut and open door.
I am nothing but divinity
precipitating from infinity –
floating in an endless swarm of progeny
of such as me and such as you,
doing what we’re here to do:
conjuring the true.
Wednesday, March 2, 2011
Can’t find it in your
Like you wouldn’t
if you could.
Get all preternaturally
woo-hoo on the sly.
Hide it, guide it, slide it in
and ride it to the sky.
Diddle with the fiddle
in the middle. Lick it
in the beach chair,
in the bathtub, on the floor.
Let it know you
want some more.
Take it, and then
show it out the door.