EASTER SUNDAY, 2017

—
APRIL 16, 2017

Rampant and woozy 
these neighbors 
mentally half-board’d up this Easter Sunday 
where pagan gods and goddesses roam around 
where families unite in a sea 
                                   of pinks
           sky blues                        yellows 
while my body like a pale marble statue stands away, 
crawling like a serpent lordly beyond the tail-end of 
my 'hood, pushing for prophetic intervention, collecting 
every loud whispery conviction in the aftermath. 
                           Cat’s missing
I keep reminding myself
while the passing of time enlarges 
the sinking feeling of possible loss. 
                           I watch from the window 
as a caterpillar wiggles on the collapsed backyard deck—
birds letting their language spill out into my tongue. 
                           Black-headed bumblebees 
digging-out perfect circles into the porch’s wood; 
sawdust falling gracefully to the steps like snow. 
                           Spring! Look what you have done!: 
Fauna, regalia of ripening, 
baseball aromas, endless green 
and multicolor for miles; 
all green and color stockpiled, 
free-standing, heroic, 
embodied in the clock; 
the feeling as if I do not belong to the present—
imperfect I—merely emerging as everyone else 
when “nothing gives” 
so I kicked the sweetgum fruit a mile 
after nearly slipping on it
moments before Miss B. brought over to me a 
Mason Jar 
full of homemade strawberry jam
as I hid behind the yellowbells, the rose bushes
in the pollen-aired dayspinning f/1.8 bokeh-spin
of melting light I retained.

[What I want is to be what sequins experience]

What I want is to be what sequins experience,
standing like Donatello’s Zuccone in every time-zone, 
activating octaves, fogging away at stubborn spheres, 

my sensory receptors engulfed by the golden morning 
light, like Queen Esther touching the Golden Scepter; 
seraphs burning bright in lacunae of liquid light 

fading into night where I could cook moonbeams 
as beans, like holograms between curling circuits; slits 
in interludes hidden in searchlight silhouettes, pale yellow
concealed, inky blackness of breathing. 

At the end of the day we’re all wild thorns, wildest thorns 
of madness betrayed like a sanitarium waiting, our tenses 
flinging, banging our drums in a Bibliothèque upon the 
terrains of our every day Rue Hazard where subterfuge 

fuses flames of countermyth; the lips of everyone, all of 
our luscious lips like glacial calving, these musical garden 
bloomerangs of internal selfhoods alight. 

I bend my body around a cartilage statue emerging in 
newsrooms where I sing stillness only the birds know. 
I might find a seashore where a woman of ghostliness 
like a clef awaits in the storm’s gnashing music. 

Battered lily that I am; holy snowfield-tremors, succulent 
ebb, the new ebony of Otherness vacating, like moving 
a scalp through one’s noiselessly dead hissing in a sonar 
shock of the belligerent invisible that I hide within, 

simultaneously amalgamated and miscellaneous, vanished 
instantaneous with the ambiance of Ozymandias, leftover 
historical voices shattering cataracts like a sinister minister’s 
sibilant pabulum, revolting absolutely like Absalom. 

[The sun going down was saluted]

The sun going down was saluted 
by the night in the hands of silence 
in the house or a conversation that 

you hear pointing whichever way 
that you may approach while the 
moon torched the evening, pouring 

its cold, moist rays down through 
the second heaven onto an angelic 
solstice; a universal downstairs, 

conveying indisputable somethings
out of nothings, so that, jelly-legged,
we stammer & stumble in search of

an unreachable light that is at the end 
of a tunnel mocking us like a mystical
figure with a false sense of affection. 

The night sky is the back of my mind
(tenebrae et lux sibi succedunt invicem): 
double hemisphere of light within my 

every orifice like every snowflake 
seeking a microscope as I snuggle to 
the Hubble the way that invisible poems 

blow into me from someplace 
the way the evening sun eavesdrops 
on the icy horizon. 

MY IDENTITY SPHERE: A ROMANTIC ABSENCE OF MEANING

“They” come and “They” go said the errors I dress in. 
My “Who” on the floor in remnants of Beautiful Negative. 
In an Adamant scale like a fog through the space of the pen
losing facts, I said Goodbye to my dear friend while nipping 
at a rusty nail. Stacks of flames filling the gut. An alien 
voiceprint drugging nights awaking with stars. Battered 
shadow, badgered bevy of small-talk around a campfire. 
Is your lesson, dear friend, in the lakes, in the rivers, 
the runlets, out towards a sudden shaking like a burp in the 
house of worldlessness? Be my guess. How can I slip 
paper through our thin-skinned stammering? Your yearning 
ribs. I need fireboots to walk through blackened violets. 
Your yearning ribs. Walk of Flame. This is the New Ghazal, 
like my face in 1991 auctioned off like a vintage tintype; 
a corpse giving anything a place to bare (the eyes one feels 
lest hocus-pocus blanks my stature into a horizon of Chance blare). 
Listen. until the earth rots,  until every well-oiled flurry 
renders me dismissed in ancestral curves uninformed, I will 
build a bridge, but only as objet d’art, by itself a multeity, like 
a mind riding cycles of Thought. In my speechlessness she held 
the gun to my face as a tactic of seeking my rescue; 
her unhappy childhood blowing through a tube of placid crows, 
holding no formation. I always walk through The Wrong Door: 
a kind of scented Time-mechanic Embalmer, short-lived 
and tenacious. Heart full of cargo: Chants, Gestures, Daydreams, 
Ambiguous Lesions of Havoc, but a love returns like a tree 
growing out of itself, veering, yes, veering, with clenched joints 
and then Out of my Paridiso, ripe as the color of an Intellect of Ruin 
in its own tradition, I read The Collected Letters of words failing, 
wailing like painted-on eyes to unlock one from the fleet of 
sealess land, Present Everywhere, a drafted substance, fleeing 
the weight of the air when abstractions falsely save a world
that no longer exists. 

[Running through fields with a Pacman body]

Running through fields with a Pacman body 
the color of bismuth crystals, engulfing the flowers 
that lose their sugary blend in my raging eye, in my 
shining armor of somnambulistic knight-walking, 
I found a rip in the fabric of the floral outburst 
in this spinning web of 360-degree arcs in a kempt 
hodgepodge of homespun agitations that codifies 
newborn spaces while I’m somewhere else, projecting 
nothing like something coming alive nowhere 
across the terrain like light through a Cucoloris. 

MUSHROOM HILLS

Everything about her blushed, 
bruised like a rosebud 
just-morphing after finger-oils; 

the Magnolia of the skin,
& in a dash to quicken-think
-sand-sink my glancing-gash 

that may’ve appeared for a 
brief stint on my forehead like 
a stigmata,—my eyes slipped 

southward towards the mushroom 
hills of her heaving bosom
& even her cleavage-top blushed!