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look out through the open window – watch
current swatch of planetary influence
subject to: imbibe its layers of translucence
the leaves – listen to the hockey sticks
playground yells of kids in games across
street – sweet blameless light of cold and warm
– final breath of month exonerating me –
me carte blanche for everything I’ve
done – consigning me to an inevitable cloud
unremembered history – a mystery of coolness
anguish of such strange delicious power –
if to feel it is to know how long the flower
before it falls. October’s coming in with blank
York indifference: and the inference is:
better let it. I loaf upon the sofa – aimless brushes
the air rush in – tender bursts exciting something
a thirst: therein resides the anguish, riding
like an apocalyptic horseman. But nothing’s dire.
another message down the cosmic wire –
my father and my mother and my brother.
happened close to two o’clock.
felt the shock.
have to find another way.
all changed today.
pray until the tips
to fat abrupt tumescence –
if to blast your gut
at the Universe
pay you back with essence.
it will. Meanwhile
early city autumn chill.
the twilight of dichotomy
you fall asleep
merge back, hushed,
the dusk of gentle chaos –
all the harassment
by the edicts of duality –
its specious tugs-of-war –
by the rank egregious lie
nothing isn’t half
something more –
something in you
affection, cuddles into all
rest of you and lets the whole
you’ve been being free.
the way it was,
night, with me.
discernments of a certain sort
to clauses so innumerably
cannot make them out.
though, how exacting
and attractive they
can be – in their
mission to distract his mind from doubt.
sit so prettily
have they come to be?
have they to do with me?
they bode catastrophe?
I were thee,
if distracted motivating
of the Psyche will occasionally
around like casual acquaintances
now and then convene because
some vague pressure they collectively
they experienced in some
distant dream to get their shit together.
just a bit of wayward inward weather –
emotional equivalent of untoward sun –
breeze – arid freeze – becomes
to set them free from any memory
any plan for their redemption. Life is
again what they will always wish
it will be for them: exemption.
the dark green night
rushes of the heart –
to adapt –
unable to allay
the inner terror
that it can't
odd thing is,
with you causes rifts –
begin to shift –
coercions and persuasions
the rash abduction
the soft seduction
your voice induce inevitable
loss of choice.
sense that sense has turned to scent –
acrid odor of consent to Fate –
the Soul – and relegates it
a whole catastrophe of difference.
is whispered – inward –
– evaporates –
me in some alien thrall.
as if I haven’t talked
anyone at all.
Strange to be a child and sit around and listen to your mother talk –
to sense the quiet machinations
of some gentle apparatus in her –
running through their measured paces –
letting everything seem possible
without much fuss: sound and something
quite remote from fury signifying
nothing more or less than what it meant
for you and her to settle in the presence
of whomever she was talking to –
discussing what to do with walnuts
and pecans, or how a neighbor ran
for councilman and lost, or whether
anyone could ever be as good
as Charlton Heston was as Moses:
easy poses – lulling murmurs –
render bliss – in every memory of this.
you want to go,
you don’t have
to pay me dough.
Just climb up
on my back.
And give my butt
astride the hum
be seen and said
are never glum
and know no dread –
sure they’re fed.
to communicate with me –
show deference to whatever reference
will permit analogy –
require particles in pattern
which suggest trajectory –
symmetry inviting solipsistic narrative
sufficiently declarative to hold a mirror
up to my inquiring eye –
fool it into thinking it is thinking as it blinks.
Lately dinner’s been half-moon shaped
Chinese dumplings –
crescents from a Shanghai sky, grinning
mouths all crinkling at the lips.
Tamari soy sauce – chili garlic paste
enrich the mix:
to cheerful cheeks.
I’ve been doing this
France will float and linger
for a day or two at most –
gently jolt me – coast me
through her ghostly wake,
softly breaking into aberrant
dimensions of New York.
Paris is a phantom mildness –
vestiges and memories
of déjeuner two weeks ago:
a cream-sauced cotelette of pork,
subtly bubbled by the Perrier
I sipped as its accompaniment.
A-lumpity-dumpity-do – by dint
of nonsense rhyme,
I pass the time: imagining I feel
the Ile de Saint-Louis
hold onto me.
the least of it.
Fuck it till it sighs
to make a feast of it.
onto the stage:
flicks and twists – scintilla –
prick you to response:
everything’s at once –
and gone, death and dawn.
Harrowing delight ignites
in having no idea
what’s going on.
Sharp and showy
the only fact.
is a solo act.
near the center
of the riot.
Hear the quiet.