Wednesday, November 30, 2011
Tuesday, November 29, 2011
Certain serpents –
be sure! – are best met and addressed,
as it were, perpendicularly.
C’est à dit:
do not walk up, abrupt,
and confront them straight-backed
with the palpable proofs of their lack:
let your spine be an offhand surprise,
not a prod to attack,
not occasion for something
to find they despise.
Praise them for all of their morphing
amorphous and multiple
Careful (with all of those esses)
that you do not spit on them.
Then, if you ask very nicely, they may
let you sit on them.
Monday, November 28, 2011
Sunday, November 27, 2011
In the realm where colors roam –
effect investigative introductions
to each other, rest inside an outline, or more
subtly overlap – to capture light – to find
another home for off-off-white: in this bright
crucible wherein innumerable hues become
the muses and the mentors of unprecedented
pinks and tans and blues: in this arresting
mine of brilliant ores, this sea of glories –
weave of interleaving shades –
sometimes a mutant breathing bit of stuff
pervades the corner of a bloom of fire-red
or tulip-yellow: and abruptly heaves out of infinity
a random unsuspecting fellow. He sits there
naked in a rainbow he cannot begin
to fathom, dazed that there is such
a game with such a claim on him – amazed
he is its thinking progeny – a golden
and beholden scrap of datum – blinking child
of chromaticity. That blinking child is me.
Saturday, November 26, 2011
Personification May Not be the Solution
Exasperated’s beef with Calm ran thus:
“You’re boring as a bus.
I’m thrilling as a bomb.”
Calm nodded with his usual aplomb.
“Never mind that,” he replied.
“We’ve both just been personified.”
“I’d rather you were dead,”
Perversity as overlay
on a convention
to spasmodic jerks
through any means at all,
however evidently artificial,
pan-elucidates the vast
organic mute reality
behind all prettiness:
the gall which undermines –
the scaffolding away –
in its vulnerable
with that today.
Thursday, November 24, 2011
Art, and Thanksgiving
The thing about a manifesto
is, it’s blind. Because
it joneses to believe
it does – in that buzzed way
compulsive sex erupts
into a specious All – grunting
to its blunt inevitable fall:
it's no fun:
And there you’ll be anon:
the spawn of something
you can’t recollect.
But heck: I’ll stay,
seduce you anyway.
I’ll bang your drum
and strum your heart strings
like a hooker. I’ll be
the looker you’ve been
looking for, cooking zesty
definitions. What is art
and what is not? Here’s
what’s not. Whatever thinks
it is what it’s describing.
Whatever doesn’t know
it has complete autonomy
from its creator. (See you
later alligator.) Whatever
buys its own PR.
Whatever’s not bizarre.
Eschew the turkey.
Chew some existential jerky.
Wednesday, November 23, 2011
The ghost of my grandmother dreams
of betting at the track –
and sipping out
of stenciled crystal
icy, gleaming ryes-and-sodas –
to help her
and cope –
My Host of Poetical Schemes
is threatening attack –
tipping his ballistic
like a hypodermic:
Excise redeeming codas!
Tuesday, November 22, 2011
But we suck
We drop our hints
like bowling balls –
all fall down
the wrong part
of the lane,
causing only mild pain.
If only we were wild!
That’s what undercuts.
We lack the stuff
We catch a whiff
of sweat – of skin –
of sex – of sin –
of crotch –
disarming secrecies! –
that don’t proceed
It’s hard to watch.
It’s hard to cope
when you’re not hot.
If we had hope! –
but we do not.
Monday, November 21, 2011
Sometimes we’ll convene
to fuss and bull –
imagining the unforeseen –
to work out if it’s possible
to morph into more mutant forms –
release, for instance, our reliance
on the uninspiring norms
which keep us trapped in human science:
musing, more concisely,
if – sixth sense? –
we might requite precisely
our sharp yearning for a difference –
unmet for far too long a while –
to find a way, perhaps, to disappear –
effect with an unprecedented style
dimensional existence past what’s known as “here.”
The holidays perforce
will soon erupt.
You’ll understand, of course:
we won't show up.
Sunday, November 20, 2011
Saturday, November 19, 2011
Friday, November 18, 2011
Here you are again –
your doodling and you.
You can’t remember when
you haven’t noodled like this to construe
the least attempt at a summation:
ah! – the conscientious absence
of the conscious mind! Predation
of another kind breaks down the fence
between whatever activates a vision
and whatever jots it down.
Amazing: the precision
which proceeds from this strange clown
inside who evidently runs the show.
Funny how he has to make it rhyme
to make it glow.
Anyway, at least, again, this time.
Thursday, November 17, 2011
In the early morning light whose shade and tint
of chartreuse, jade and mint and celadon insinuate
themselves into the scents of his abundant verdure
(newly mown): a mix of flora and testosterone –
a blast of grassy Spring, a hint of skunkweed funk –
Daphne thinks he’s quite a hunk – before
he recommits himself to his green archetypal creed
and undergoes the swift experience of turning back
into his mossy leafy vine-y mobile signature man-tree –
though after he drinks yet another cauldron of green tea –
he sits and contemplates the role he is assigned
and finds it interesting that human beings need
so many symbols of the “pagan” – whatever pagan
possibly could mean. (He figured largely in the tarot
cards of Nancy Reagan.) It’s obscene, he thinks,
before he blinks and plink! – another thirsting bud
bursts up from some fast-thatching swatch.
Well, soon I shall be overgrown – tomorrow,
once again, new-mown, he muses – philosophically
scratching his deciduous assiduously sprouting crotch.
Then (so to speak) he “leaves” – resumes his watch.
Wednesday, November 16, 2011
We’re fine with everything today, we think –
we’re feeling preternaturally present:
the dissonance which had us at the brink
has now become a plethorably pleasant
We're feeling downright sister-y.
No mother of a brother
of a lover of a mother
has it over us.
As richly odorous
and unctuous as brie:
you, and you, and you, and me.
It’s nice to press our flesh together
in this prescient purple weather:
take a random nap
upon a random lap –
thereby to understand –
not much beyond the adjectivally sweet grand
experience of your, and your, and your, and my.
Tuesday, November 15, 2011
In the eternal purgatory of his night
wherein his soul experiences yearning
so intensely it may burst abruptly into sight –
in those strange moments of the burning
of his ardor to disperse at last the steam
that otherwise impedes achieving
form – manifestation of the dream –
in that sweet chance of finally relieving
the unbearable condition of his being –
he will sometimes pop upon your knee –
and while you can’t believe you’re seeing
him all winged and plump and naked, he
will whisper – ah! exquisite consonantal spit! –
his unmistakable locutions. Henry James
is back, revealing every last salacious bit
of the explicit truth, naming names.
Monday, November 14, 2011
And since there isn’t any time
past the illusion of it which proceeds
from those intransigently skewed
conditions which insist configurations
of whatever constitutes electrons
and their inexplicably dark contexts
must disperse out in an infinite
and quickening entropic spread
as fleet discrete ‘events’ from some
just fathomable big bang cosmic burp,
it’s easy to imagine you’re the lone
foregone equivalent in some unknown
dimension of a muddled and befuddled
one-eyed Wyatt Earp, parched
and gasping in a blood-red desert,
fantasizing what imbibable quintessence
there might ever once have been,
or might yet be, a man could slurp.
Sunday, November 13, 2011
Michelangelo may have been onto
something with that finger thing:
forces of Creation all collecting
to comprise collectively
a fine, divine, divining hand
to linger and to bring
another finger into its grand
fellowship of every swimming, standing,
worming, squirming, flying and reclining
bit of breathing creature – all the rest
of the menagerie the Universe
withholds, enfolds to feature –
and to spew
out like confetti. Ferlinghetti
touched a digit to the digits
of a Corso and a Ginsberg and a Kerouac –
now a Kettelhack
is visited by two escapees from his zoo:
a colorfully striped quasi-homo sapiens
who either entertains a little yellow fellow
whom he wants
or has been summoned
by the little yellow fellow hoping
it might hear a quasi-human spew.
Who makes whom?
Big Bangs boom.
Saturday, November 12, 2011
Each new thoughtcomes perpendicular
to its most recent
at right angles,
after and before –
weaving burgeoning new
meshes like fish nets,
they quickly cover your
from its ceiling
to its floor.
You might have wished
for something different.
Lord knows you’d never
ask for more.
Friday, November 11, 2011
inside the frightened Psyche’s
Imagination plays along
imagining a bomb –
so replete with coded
a parti-colored cage
adorned with variously
glazed expressions –
so apparently the picture
of benign impressions –
that the Psyche cannot
know Imagination will
and leave the whole thing
shredded, bloody, chopped.
Vision isn’t pretty
when it’s stopped.
Thursday, November 10, 2011
You never know
whom you will meet.
By every measure
it’s a treat to make
a treasure to encounter
bits and squirts of human
bounty – stir its cauldron's
living spices –
sip from its forgiving
vices – maybe sit awhile
with someone on
couch and flirt
with minty delicacy –
vouch in flinty silence
to determine who it is
you’re with and what
it’s all about – then
give it up in all the senses
of that phrase you’ve
got the courage not
to doubt. Surrendering
to anyone and anything
Wednesday, November 9, 2011
Tuesday, November 8, 2011
Today I’m almost sure
I saw and caught
a speeding fragment
of the blasted paradigm
of human thought: something
burned my palm as it shot
through my skin to find my heart
to lodge like ice within it –
crystalline, impermeable –
yet impermanent: I barely
felt it melt into the flood of me –
so imperceptibly that it became
the thing, today, that I forgot
about. Tonight, now,
I suspect I recollect it
but I can’t be certain. I wonder
if it’s germinating somewhere
in my psychic dirt and grows
and sprouts as some
dark seed of doubt.
Or maybe I just peed it out.
Monday, November 7, 2011
You search around whatever’s left up
on the shelf for stuff to conjure up
a simulacrum of yourself but can’t.
You’d settle for a bit of living essence
to implant somewhere and maybe turn
into a friend. You learn there’s reason
to believe you can achieve that end.
You plunge your pen into your folderol,
and some of it – as you caress, cajole,
undress, or strike it – awakes and sighs.
You rub your eyes at the surprise:
it doesn’t have to look like you to like it.
Sunday, November 6, 2011
Over time one learns one rather
has to face the facts about oneself.
For instance, if one finds that one
is complicatedly, extravagantly
big and beautiful and blue, one may
be well and dutifully advised to take
these traits off one’s dim psychic shelf
of sighs to see to what sweet happy
uses they might more availingly be put.
Big, Beautiful and Blue must surely,
head to foot, be True. If this remotely
sounds like you, here’s what to do.
Construe your bluenesses as newness:
strut about your world with pride.
Soon everything that matters will bemust-see. Take this recipe in how
on your side. Be the next hot rare
on your side. Be the next hot rare
to be. Look where it got me.
Saturday, November 5, 2011
oddities from which
our errant minds
have been contrived
at an affectionate
that each of us
to the other: claim –
exalt! – our camaraderie –
It’s true our
colors do not
match and while
we think our species
overlap, we aren’t sure.
But this sweet bond
is so pure –
fabulous – we
simply have to say
how awfully glad
we are that you
Friday, November 4, 2011
The one who
she is sneering
isn’t sneering –
she’s a trifle
hard of hearing
and she finds
that when she
it seems to help
the words another
a little better.
As for the others,
I’ve no clue.
Though I suspect
if you decide
yourself they will,
reveal the spirit
and the letter
of their separate
Thursday, November 3, 2011
The oddness of arousal –
pitched into espousals
of devotion! Unnerving notion.
Romance makes him unsteady.
What’s the thing itself?
Does it always come with codas
that proclaim “or else”?
Strong – strange – bold – heady.
He wonders if he wants to be in love.
He doesn’t know.
If love is all, as he’s been told,
is he not in the thing already?
Wednesday, November 2, 2011
When the boy looked back,
he thought he saw a tear
in the fabric of the air
and was therefore not aware
that Existence was unraveling
in front of him. Strange
to have the whole thing bear
the brunt of him – then blow
shenanigans just when he got
a chance to see the flow. This
is how we’ll all feel when we go.
Tuesday, November 1, 2011
You’ve somewhat mastered form –
you’ve managed to effect a biologically
operative infrastructure which sustains the frameand keeps it warm. It’s true it’s hard to recollect
the references. There’s so much you don’t want
to keep in mind. Bipedalism rankles you,
for one thing – how you’d rather swing or flump
or puddle blindly into an amorphous lump
than muddle through maneuvering
the brittle sticks and joints and linchpins
of a hip or ankle, knee or toe! Oh,
to be the drape and flow of some plush cloth
instead of trapped inside a droopy wrap of skin:
you’d rather be a towel than a jowl.
Where do the arms begin? How do fingers
reach the wrist? Where’s the list? You forgot it.
(You got besotted with the charms of ears instead,
and put too many on.) Intricately wearying, adhering
to the vertebrae! – or working out the trick
of the discreet evacuation of compacted waste
without attracting looks. Those masses of cooked
wood paste they call books have not been any help.
And yet – you don’t entirely dislike the yelp,
and yaw and bumble you’ve become.
Might one derive some useful art therefrom?
Bewildering, this endless roar and rumble!
Watch and wait: awake to the shebang of it.
Perhaps you’ll get the hang of it.