Sunday, March 29, 2015

It Took Forever to Get Here

And here is where the ground is soaked
with a new kind of estrangement.

Maybe it was foolish to resist
the air's living ear—

obtaining a slice of its aura is a privilege
limited to those "in the know."

Those in the snow just ignore it, focus instead
on their lines of credit.

We do like a bit of cuteness, so long as it
doesn't abscond with our language too literally.

Great balls of silence! Check out the abs on that soda.

Wednesday, March 25, 2015

Future You

refused to dematerialize. How hungry was the mnemonic
morning after—it came spilling in from every window

irreverently. It was more than the mere doing
of an uncouth youth; it was a need to exist

allusively. It fizzled out, then promptly retraced
its steps into the blackboard eraser in which

this dream is embedded: We're having a drink in a bar,
as friends, but when I turn away, you silently slip

your arm around my waist. Shocked awake,
I'm a character again, artificially unsavory.

Tuesday, March 17, 2015

East of Pluto

Amid the sky's deregulation, my passivity began to be indulged in. To find footing solid enough to read by seemed a too moony pursuit for words. Not that we weary agents of biology minded, not at all. In fact we liked it that way, the way of all flesh. I almost got famous adapting it for the screen. 

Watch out! Reviews are rolling in, and they don't look good for authenticity, to name but one disappointment among the many we, the unofficially bereaved, occupied in memory of adolescent appetizer days. Beige was a popular color that year, as usual; practically every state recognized it, took it under its wing. Then,

in a flash and a puff of smoke, an anonymous source erected a chocolate abatis in front of a grand piano army—to dignify our heavenly anarchy, some felt. But not all! "You may already be unborn," announced the imperial press release. At once we fell to bedding each other, languidly but rigorously, like writing a paper. No one ordered us to, we just took the liberty.

Monday, March 16, 2015

The Perilous Night

In the movies, the Wurlitzer seduces the howitzer,
but how often does real life redeem this?

I've been told to limit my remarks on this topic;
they all but swallow themselves, anyhow.

No wonder word-peddlers more notorious than I
are "wont" to "ply" their "wares" in my "vicinity."

It's not unreasonable to dismiss them as mere actors,
sad strivers with no more relevance to

our scrambled lives than the cloud I halved
and exposed for your viewing pleasure

one fine morning, long ago. Still, it never
hurt anyone to call for a stiff drink to go

along with a proportionately stiffer breeze.
You must sit as still as you can then,

yet take care never to get anywhere
in regard to the big questions:

The chicken is reluctant to surrender
documents the egg deems essential to its case.

Once again, without consulting me,
dusk is out the door, getting busy.

My thought-bubbles gurgle. Time is ticked off.
In some suburban driveway, a dog parks.

Monday, March 9, 2015

Watchful Whispering

Feminize the clock if it needs it, then inhale.

Later on (the best time of day), we'll have other
bodacious disarmaments to look forward to:

doodled maps of digital neuropathies
raised up as art.
                             And with pleasures like those,
who needs signature moves? This question begs itself

not to linger too long in the threshold between us;
no need to fear another untenable sleep
from which to wake into a catastrophe

different from the one you'd hoped would compose you.

No, all the time in the world doesn't begin
to enclose such a stubborn infinity. Yes,
reinforcements are on the way, memories
marching to a tune as urgent as a feather

floating on the atom-scattering breeze
that sent your unbound biography scudding away.

Wednesday, March 4, 2015

From the mile of your eye 
subtract the getting warmer. 

If it feels stupid, it seems like
nowhere you can join me into. 

I want to make something for you:
clean air too scrubbed through, 

living as another home
returned us. Only for

the world do we covet
tersely ungainly tunes.
The Itch

I sat drinking sadness at an outdoor cafe
In philosophical Europe
The ogre of love approached my table
It had four legs (the table)

I wasn't in the mood for a lecture
Having just attended one
On the subject of microtelepathy
(The reading of tiny minds)

Also I had an itch the size of a couch
Whose location I couldn't place
So just to be safe
I scratched my whole body

"Let me guess, it didn't work"
Said the ogre, loving all over me
"Let me scratch you . . . metaphorically"
I wasn't in the mood for metaphor

So I put on the scowl of the century
And left before the ogre
Could say any words to me
In terms of wisdom or whatever

At that point I was ready
For another madcap adventure
But then I decided
That would be "pushing it"

Instead I just walked and felt existential

Monday, March 2, 2015

The Headache Fastener Thingy Wasn't Working Scarily

This new you's a pylon of agriculture—
Elegant twine Tuesday perimeter
Sealed "bent knock five" truce oldie
Sap nod. Truck lover black sand whisper?
Nothing the roof can say "can do"
Or further very hospital legwarmer
Transition team cupcake. You're

Jousting a lost sheep madrigal platform
Flagged as a stuck bloom,
Motion sickness Broadway rapier saxophone.

Action chaps decide FedEx blasphemy,
Ample deft switchgrass organization pig
"Begin the Beguine"? Alamo doubts it.
Ankle floe deletes its mention,
Says "comebacks are a tough ape
Several pedestals" on the buddy system of
Panic dressing, floor shine lepers now
Sketching who's. Another monster's record
Keeps juice to help snag holy knack
Friendship, lady opines green, solider.
To Graze Her Dazzle

Smitten sagas spring sweetly 
forth on leggy lips 
as a worthy writher's eyebrows 
darken with kink. 

She's combed out 
the willies to welcome 
my prick and me.

She bowls shyly as
a wet swastika when
we lumberjack each other, 
no lotion like our homecoming. 

We munch a manifesto, 
delicate as the skirt
over a glans's xenophobia.

If I stepped out of her 
glory I would smother 
all and sundry.

It made me sick to wander in
my name, the little bugger.

It suits any indication. Catapults
were used to no effect. The

light I liked was too, too bright
as if this really were a music

venue, slide behind and move
in time to what they play

what is news you might recall
what's nice in weather hides.
Slightly grown-up and itchy these testimonies
are gathered, newsy drools stoppered—a lax

audience deemed unnecessary at this
olfactory miscarriage. Faithless sketches evade

late gropes fashioned from postal slogans
the skyline took caress of, a bent dazzle had.

In the moron the platitude gave up.
Respecting that isn't hard. I'd cream

permissible retail, ministry airship belch
unavailable, so a smut try to fix on.