“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.
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.
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