I don't know where I'm going with this
Umbrella I'm holding to keep the rain
From making an ass out of you and me,
But I have a vague feeling feelings
Will be involved, special ones for the dark
Side of a doughnut or the sigh of a wren.
It's so unlike me, though, to venture far
Without securing first a slew of notes
From emotive conductors I've had
The pleasure of being deafened by.
Perhaps it's time for me to enlist
In the army of delicate wackos who
Seem so full of themselves and life
And who constitute the human race.
Hear them singing their sweetness to
The disconsolate cumulonimbi?
I want that job and to find myself
Finishing the touches I started with you.
Of lurid tales of turnabouts in accepted weather
Supply is rich in the addled heads of the young
And the morose alike, harrumphing under cover
Of aging and its private parts, whose crime was to approve
The fatal matrimony of mourning past delights
And driving one to love a wall. Heavy sunlight falls there
In its haste to outline the shadow behind the air's
Surprising anchor: a bark heard 'round the room
Of my animal consciousness, a reminder of the
Futility in any name. False enough to come apart
Like a molecule left on a dish after brunch
Following the night that broke to its tactfully
Shallow grave in the sky, the time is now to cry.
To stay weird in the presence of work—
This laughter is directed inward,
An itch that science has given us
For use with friends. Mostly they say
I'm entertained without ever thinking
I could find a worthy venue for
What empty space finds fit to explain.
Makes sense. Here lies the maneuver
Out of character which duration likes
To squeeze back into its formfitting stare.
Decisive action seems always to be
Less of a verdict and more of a product,
A motion against the loss of one's valuables.
Luckily, they were never really there.
...which I am calling The Clothed City. Hopefully I will be able to accumulate enough pictures of people in interesting clothing to post one every day. So far I've just put up some shots from my Flickr archive. Actually I should have spaced them out more instead of posting them all at once. Hmm. Well what's done is done. Enjoy.
One moment, please, as I try to recall the last rabbit
I laid eyes on. It likely had spectacular hair,
Not the kind you'd ever want to cut, shave,
Or change the color of. In any event, I've soon got to run,
So I'd better concentrate real hard and not stop to chat.
I'm on my way to a pleasant day inside my pyramid.
Say what? You'd like to hear more about my pyramid?
I fail to see what that has to do with the rabbit
On my mind, but hey, you're the one who started this chat.
Far be it from me to throw sand in your hair
Over a little thing like the course our conversation should run.
I just hope I have time for a shave
Before my visit this afternoon. Going in without a shave
Is said to bring a curse on all who enter the pyramid.
What terrible roads the fates force us to run,
Am I right? But really I'd rather get back to my rabbit,
Which as I speak is starting to materialize, hair
And all, in the theater of my memory. Let's chat
Another time, a time more conducive to quality chat,
Namely the afterlife, the proper entry to which obliges me to shave
Lest tomb-raiders come to rob my tomb of my hair.
Though the security system I installed in my pyramid
Is state-of-the-art, I'm afraid it's no match for a rabbit
(For example) intent on breaking in and having the run
Of the place, pilfering its treasures. Hey, don't run
From me now—I'm about to elevate our chat
To matters far more pressing than what rabbit
Was last seen by me, or whether I need a shave.
The day grows late, the shadows long, and I can hear my pyramid
Beckoning me, screaming its fiery call that singes my hair.
It tells me you were right, you passerby with amazing hair,
Not to care about some lagomorph I once did run
With or maybe just blew my nose at as it robbed a pyramid.
'Twas a mere distraction from the jewel in the lotus of our chat:
The idea that to live well is to shave
Away all thoughts that cause us to obsess like rabbits
Over trivial, non-pyramid things. For as my hair
Is my witness, I am a horse. Adept at chat, in need of a shave,
Expert at running, I shall endeavor to be a friend to rabbits.
Whenever I am confronted with the sentimentality of a Cheerio
Rolling toward me across a table, I choose
Not to intervene in my own undoing: the drastic measures
You've heard so much about in the media
Are useless against the hurt feelings of history.
I'm speaking of personal history here, its potato
Wedges and its crimes against reason. Yes, we are all infatuated
With certain special others for a period of time,
Taking out our junk and having it too.
Then as we grow older, we see ourselves
In each other and are disgusted, too bothered
By our debts to see beyond them to the designated exit.
As a youth I was beholden to such demerits,
But lately I have come to familiarize
Myself with potential methods of acting out.
I am a grownup now but still I desire much
In the way of immediate gratification—something I enjoy
Is to digest the injured air of social studies
In small doses, and to have it be a problem I like to have,
Far more fulfilling than a thoroughly pleasant jaunt
Into expanding heavenly vacancies
In which I am forced to limit myself to myself
And luckless threads of inquiry into loss and how to love it.
For those who wish to enter my developmental delay
Please dress accordingly, in soiled corduroy—
I'm almost too understood now to withstand
The faint praise of a new fabrication today. As if that
Weren't enough to dissuade me from my magic act,
Freedom from hearing from old friends has been debunked
To the point of boredom, a bride to less accomplished
Ambiguities of form—tryouts are tomorrow for
The wind and the rain coming down on the farm.
Here in my April shower, however, I see the heat bounce
From wasted walls to my uninhabited body, through which
I'm obliged to follow love's leave-taking to chance
Encounters with hovering citizens' shivery pasts.
This morning is a test of the emergency broadcast system.
If this were an actual morning, you'd be dead by now.
Congratulations, you've been accepted into my fan club,
Which is a club for people who enjoy keeping cool.
Lemonade is available to those who desire it,
But be careful where you place your glass. Always
Use a coaster. I am here to behave well before you,
And to suckle at your synapses. The bodies of water
You've laid eyes on throughout your life are nothing
Compared to the bodies you'll find in my study tonight,
Yours and mine, yes, which are 100% water anyway,
Let's not forget. Instead let's pile into this here bus
And let's get bussed. We'll get bussed from Area 51
To Area 50 across the street and back again. Cheerleaders
I have hired for the day will line the road and cheer us on.
Having earned their pay, they will retire to their homes
In nearby townships unincorporated, where they will nap
Outside in the sun in their solid gold hammocks. This concludes
Our test. Sated, wreathed in safety, I rest easy. And now
My dog and I will go on a long walk to the pharmacy.
Often at night I am visited by Rick Moranis
In the back of my mind where the laundry is
News fit for a queen as planets revolve
And my past selves convalesce maybe
Too readily I discuss by way of introduction
To a kiss the many months I've undressed
Fending off my less-than-calculated risks
For an idea whose tongue has come
To resist the rest of a night's supply of
Growth amid shadows that multiply
Behind every mire an imagined bliss
The books on my shelves have seen
Best to keep just out of my reach
Easter morning almost noon
The Dunkin' Donuts crew
Knows my order before I do
Lots of sun on Fresh Pond Road
Four hours' sleep is okay
After sexting the night away
I'm tempted to say I couldn't be
More happy but where does that leave
The rest of the day which I hope
Will only get better from here
Later I'll write a letter to K.
Walk around reading or looking for
Beauty in faces then maybe go buy
Some envelopes for my taxes
Already I filled out the forms at least
Now the one question remaining is
Which book to read in line
En la casa de James A. Farley
Nothing like waking up is more than a cool concept
Fresh out of mind driving the sky down to a new
Blue while it lasted. Escape with nary a costume.
Having fun without limits? Don't be alarmed,
This lie is a penetration. (It's only a test.)
Dreams like these are filters, not unlike the last
Brutal sortie fucked. Some sharpness was lost
Under the teen's brittle hegemony. What I inspect
Nightly is a far more durable trace of
Sticking to principles. I choose them with care,
Feeling left out in the ordinary. I depend
On the likeness of myself to a damaged good
Too useful not to be consumed. My friends are the glue
Bonding the sky to the rain I consider
The true me, no match for my window. Beyond that,
The recession-proof sidewalk is a scene to be revealed
Through the view that all dogs must be obeyed.
Wherever you are, stranger who makes up my
Life from scraps, take the hint: Saturday and the light are here
Submitting the order I've looked for for you.
You have to keep light
on your feet if you want
to be a true friend of
space in time. You have
to wear something you'd
die to be buried in or
you may not be believed
in. Oh what a day for a
positive view of the world
and walk around over
my body in the ground.
The specifics of your face
all come down to living behind
these vanished walls. No
further motion on your part
is required: the room begins
to free itself of concern
for the real. Over a smooth
hour more blue than even
a full commitment from
your hands, your calm
look makes up my mind.