Friday, July 25, 2014

Electric Parvenu


Some of my best friends are billionaire space-tourists . . .
Next up, we hear from a man who eats his own garbage!

Sandwich artists rarely have literally thousands of
Good t-shirt slogan ideas. "It's chilly in here,"

Said no one ever. "Is a window open somewhere?"
Every store in town is fresh out of context.

Ever think of offing yourself? Default to factory settings—
I prefer Perry Como to Bing Crosby . . . sometimes.

Armed to the teeth with old saws, the cutest among us
Have all gone loco—who cares how we motivate our hair

When we have the means to employ
Ancient astronauts in our entourage? I mean,

You could at least try to see my nut in a virtuous light—
It rewards us with rapture via 1080i clarity.

Wednesday, July 23, 2014

Dimensionless Highway


The breath of night gave me an order so tall
It resembled a dance, rare in my oeuvre.
I didn't want to say anything but
An overhanging tonality soon
Kind of demanded a sidekick.
Free of all rulers, I planted my foot
And boom went the windy cube.
The sky was closed down for some time
As unheralded hellos and even more softly unsung
Schools of ill repute felt blessed to matter.
No one was happier than a shoddy likeness
To a jewel in the robber's mind,
In reality an angel who was a cure
For concealment. But the phone isn't for kidding
Nor should back roads be forsaken
Until the last heliotrope decides to pack it in.
At best I'm bleeding rainbows, so let's draft
Another headlong rush into random
Vanishing points, only to cut it loose.

What I Meant to See


Morning examines the room,
Paradigmatically shifty.
Alienation is underrated,
As promised by the usual

Bather's kind remorse.
A careless rumor reads
Into the silence of cool
Machinery to corroborate

The daydream's torso; this
Idea talks to itself the way
Found objects are known to do.
Soon the sky of tomorrow

Is devoted to doubting what
The business end of today's
Would not hold up. At least
This eternity is temporary.

Tuesday, July 22, 2014

New Findings


As any physicist will tell you, the so-called phenomena of dark matter and dark
          energy
Are essentially nothing more than a cosmic lack of self-esteem. In other words,
The wisdom of the ancients, once thought debunked, was valid all along:
You have to love yourself before you can love at all. Think about it—
Trendy as summer plaids, this theory eludes lazy attempts to pigeonhole its
          essence,
Much the same way an aeolian harp encourages a species of mild reflection
That looks inward even as it keeps an eye out for nature's
Fruitful interruptions—ah yes, the Australian baobab . . .

Also known as the boab, the bottle tree, the upside down tree, the dead rat tree,
          the gouty stem tree, the monkey bread tree, the cream of tartar tree, the
          gourd-gourd tree, the gadawon, the larrgadi, and of course its scientific
          name, Adansonia gregorii
Never heard of it? Me neither, yet it persists in the face of our ignorance.
It's a good role model, you see, eschewing cultural relevance, the pointlessness
          of which
I felt firsthand the day I experienced my first quotient.
All those aboard the dividend looked pale, their faces a sea-green blur
In the foundering twilight. Operators sailed by without stopping,
Solving for not a soul, least of all us misfit variables.

And that's not even half the backstage drama
I have personally witnessed . . . O assorted meats who call the shots!
Take home and serve these germs of thought I wish to pursue
Along the avenues of souped-up awareness I have so far lacked
The wherewithal to construct, let alone violate to the satisfaction of Martian law.

Tuesday, July 15, 2014

Unwritten


A feeble echo trampled in the brush with fame
I was busy exorcising is lost to time; no sooner

Did I jump aslant it than a higher function
Mapped and catalogued the waft of cinders

Defying my stubborn description of a vacuum
Rubbed into a wound too true to occupy

More than a deftly broken hour I'd rather
Not needle or hurdle over, the stain of which

Alarmed the hills we deified in the spring
When our dreams had inflamed the barracks.

Sadness grew a universe then, soft enough
To connive by but insufficiently scouted out to maneuver

Within its outgrowing, the surly index of which
I'll recite to my love in spite of a scrape with her anthem.

Launch Party


I don't think I'll bother going home again; the firmament's cooked
And the goose is unhinged. There's really nothing on TV. 
Are you calling me an outlier? Go engage with meaning 
On a thinking man's dime. Abuse no cookies. Tonight
Is all wet and good, but my coffee is starting to reek 
Of a laptop's disquiet. I think it needs to be changed. 

Christ, this is some launch party. The furniture has friends
Draped about in positions of authority, but the moon isn't 
About to comment on this, so give up now 
While the giving's good. Chaos resigns if
We're not careful. A most agreeable vacillation 
Lingers inside us long after we're gone—that's all 
The marching band is willing to admit. What a 
Bunch of woodwinds. Whatever. Party on.

Thursday, July 10, 2014

Crassitude


Throw another concerto on the barbie. It's in the Bible. And all this
Because you just had to get a look at your bookie's pussy.
Men with the strength of ten vests adorned with floral patterns
Are here to wrinkle badges. Something in my lap occurred.

The news burned down in sobs, straightening eighth notes worthy
Of summer's cumshaw. Its Festschrift was a fancy route to
Elephant squirt. Residua begin the slow slide to murdered
Hours in mobile abasement. A tennis racket glued to a shepherd farts

Muses; break glass in case of electric mandolin, it says here. Fetid
Yews in the bank are stapled to fists. I'm drunk and a
Stump is assented to with brisk abandon; its devil bifurcates
The snores of cues to incite cupcake death rites jumping us.

Killing the darned sock was kept secret for a time, then traded for
Consuetude gifted with intimate oil but absolved. Snooze and relent,
Violate the fraternal. Culpable denizens involve the stars with our citywide
Humps-a-daisy. The nuclear family blurbed itself to bits in high-def.

Wednesday, July 9, 2014

Terror from the Year 5000


Flunked out and bug-eyed, the jittery dawn
Spices up the wrestling match. Cool beans
Drown their sorrows. An eclipse of the sun
Resides in the mason's heart, wanting it all.
Another bee battalion has settled the bill.
Lick my finger or bestir a flaming pizza.

If you're ever in Paris, ask a stranger for pizza
Without looking directly at the uppity dawn
Which has vetoed night's revolutionary bill.
The enemy of my noumena is my beans.
Testimony to that grand effect wasn't all
It could have been, but nevertheless the sun

Shined on my birth. And lo, it was the same sun
That later founded a school: L'École de Pizza
Was its moniker. And baby, that's not all!
The sun is responsible for every dawn
That hits your eye like a medicated bean
In shock after seeing its hospital bill.

Wow, check out that mallard. Got a hell of a bill . . .
(That's probably my cue to get out of the sun
And retire to the care of endangered beans.)
In the square a chant was begun: "Death to pizza!"
Evidently lost was the protection of dawn.
Just give me my life back already, and all

That goes with it—if the dang thing goes at all.
How I long to see my name on a playbill
For Nightmares Are Best Supped on at Dawn!
This and other mirthless maxims about the sun
Are the jelly and butter atop my pizza.
Go forth, milady, and think about those beans:

How shall we cope with a shortage of beans?
Will the crisis hit home, or just the parlor where all
The community's pillars eat their pizza?
One of them, my wily alter ego, is named William.
He conquered his crippling fear of the sun
And now he's a tireless shill for all things dawn.

But how do beans feel about the dawn
Of all our naive utopian dreams, comrade Bill?
"Phooey!" he says. "Pizza awaits us in the sun."

Tuesday, July 8, 2014

Night Sky Askew


My bedroom window went berserk—it saw right through me
To the naked ambivalence that was never an issue
But in fact was a laugh I lived and denied too strongly.

Turning to split the scene, I spy a rogue pixel
Throw its hat into the party mix; the city of reticent miracles
Is never the same. (I ask for nothing less.) The war
On television wants me, I don't know why. I have not yet begun to seep
Into a pattern of thought better suited to lunar camouflage.

The coast is as clear as it's going to be. I pursue the worst of it
And have come to rely on phantoms I never knew—
Proof that the buddy system has failed us once again.
Fooling myself on foot from here, I'm overrun with orgone
I don't see a need to thank the stars for; the scope of
My search has outlasted their waste of time.

Sunday, July 6, 2014

Telling Off


Telling off the great and fatuous unknown
After I catch it bulldozing,
I turn to my superior, a shadow whose face is a sentence
I might have been.
                                    Awake for long enough to know
The bent of my breath, it puts forth various theories
Of sky and punishment. Nothing is water enough.

So I take a friendly book down from the shelf
And scrub my obscurity clean of the hostile self
I had mistaken for my own.
                                                     Now it's an open space
For the least I could say, though often the past comes
To collect me before I stop there; it likes to eye
The blind side of a day on its way to living me.

Safe to Say


Free to act in line with a twisting
Road's burden of proof, done for
In the way of conscious animals,
The stagger of the task may
Serve to incite a gravity
You could as well do without as apply
To any assumed identity.
A small wrath given birth
In the midst of a voiceless past is secure
Only in its tendency to wander,
Yet it works every time
You make it; nothing left in the dark
Is loved more or less.
                                         Another way to go
May swerve into light devised
To speak to a certain wariness
In the ongoing, the frank dissembling
That comes to pass through a starkly
Constructed malaise, even dread
In the mind that claims the unique
Intelligence a silent day sends
Along the wireless air. Left off there,
I begin dividing the drift of
All that suspends, losing but loose,
Aching for a walk to take
The place of the day's end.

Friday, July 4, 2014

Poem


Slip with me into a cloud
More worthy of theft—
Join this flown fume
Escaping loot-laden through
Heavy answers to when
I need more words to see what I
See, the cut of it all
Including us never enough
But some. Take this hurt
Clarity's oath of the unseen
And for all time be.

Monday, June 30, 2014

Aerial


Abiding in a casual perfectionism
Obtuse in its leanings, these fraught dimensions
Try an interlocutor's rapt inattention
To the horizon's fixed belief as it advances and recedes,
Kisses and bleeds; the virtue here is a shout
That tumbles into a dance of ruin
High above alerted plains, where one may enact
No more precise a move than a drive to inspect
What sudden insight spares, smudged
Almost to the point of legibility
In a chromatic moment's cascade.

Sunday, June 29, 2014

Wish Lost


A deep pink that is bluer, lighter,
And stronger than average coral,
Bluer and deeper than a siesta,
Yellower and deeper than a begonia—

In search of this I traveled the universe
Forever, without much luck.
Though prone to suggestion
And open to doubt, I failed to imagine
A living light into the murk.

Phew! Penning a tell-all really takes it out of you!
Today's a wash. Let's regroup in Panavision.
Death can't find us there, gives up and goes home.

Now then, what's cooking
On the aurora's agenda?
Will my glance be invaded
In more than a cursory way next time?
These are questions without borders,
So let's let them do their jobs.
(I'm looking at you, walls,
Load-bearing and otherwise . . .)

Friday, June 27, 2014

Sweet Babe


A hard line must be taken
To task; our world is a bolus
Of mad riffing. Denting a song
For a noble causerie, our joy
Is not to unsheathe the literal,
Only to glue a silent squawking
To a factoid flashing on and off
As the void's pollster takes our pulse.

"Garçon! How is the hornyhead chub tonight?"
Sigh. Another sad soiree. So many celebs,
So few garrotes to go around.
Some will have to share. Who's up
For platonic tonguing? It's fun, like a cemetery
You wear in your hair, sweet babe.

Thursday, June 26, 2014

Disappointment Lake


An angel of injured water lies down on the job
Her canoe floats away from. A damp prospectus of hoops
To jump through sport no act of contrition. This is why
She borrows the future, forgetting its purpose.

Soon the valley's deserted fringe does swarm
With moist encounters between a boy-flute hybrid
And a new kind of armor. His bike's in the shop being
Painted impeachable colors the night arranges.

Unplugging the open air takes forever, says the hole
Where our guide used to be, taking breathers.
And we hold forth, the beach and I, on the premise
That tomorrow won't come too soon.
A kite's on fire as we crumble
Under the mirrored sky and look out
For a hung picture hiding a window.

Tuesday, June 24, 2014

Anchor


I think it's always fascinating when you find yourself rubbing up against a
          context that appears
Not to have a name or a thing around which it resides, and your job
As the voice of delphic responsibility is merely to contrive an ergonomics
          friendly enough
To enable the casual passerby, catching his wan reflection in the glass front of a
          pet store,
To look himself regretfully in the eye. Reams have been written on the benefits
Of low-cost solutions like this, though they have yet to be fully implemented—
When the time for admonitory spunk comes crawling
Back to where it was last sought after, only then can you truthfully say what
          your brick
Of a biography has been nudging you toward all along, to wit,
That sooner than the cogs of commerce may permit, a great gyration
Is bound to occur like music in the yard and your talents
Will be asked to move in a new direction. And this may be fine
Where your average haunted skeleton on the street is concerned, but in what
          shape
Will those less gifted with unlimited refills end up? It's awkward to admit,
But without ado, my ship has come in. That's either the captain waving to me
          from the bridge
Or one mischievous urchin sitting atop the shoulders of another,
Dressed in a comically oversize costume and fake beard, luring me to some
          watery mischance.
Either way, I must join him before the pendulum
My over-the-transom heart is hooked on, secure in the belief
That one more swing is always promised for even the most senior of newbies
To make of its trajectory what one will, returns to sweep obliviously once again
Past the pageant of human folly I've been looking to for guidance since I can't
          remember when.