This
Poem has no beginning nor an end,
like all of the other poems in the world.
And without refrain, I ask these questions to begin
like ancient codexes unfurled:
like all of the other poems in the world.
And without refrain, I ask these questions to begin
like ancient codexes unfurled:
Why do you possess my madness
like an Encyclopaedist’s
muscular reaction’s protrusion;
some kind of fashionable darkness,
like a lamp’s beams
of which I feel
diffusing
through our taciturn schedules
of detritus havoc?
What
is it to be Twin-Gates (unlocked),
our Connoisseurship of kindred spirits?
Where have the iridescent songs gone
in these mountainous parallels?
Wire topiaries
are still alive
in our secret
Venetian Gardens
of statues
and pipevines,
in this pipedream
where I yearn
to be curled
amongst
the tendrils
in the empathic
recesses—
our Connoisseurship of kindred spirits?
Where have the iridescent songs gone
in these mountainous parallels?
Wire topiaries
are still alive
in our secret
Venetian Gardens
of statues
and pipevines,
in this pipedream
where I yearn
to be curled
amongst
the tendrils
in the empathic
recesses—
responses
where we
out-flower the flowers,
where they rise early
to rush ahead
to feel our airy auras
in an auditorial masque
of purple arches—
the gate I never enter
b w i t h i n
e n t
c i h
a a e H
u m L T
s e A N
e r B I
I Y R
where we
out-flower the flowers,
where they rise early
to rush ahead
to feel our airy auras
in an auditorial masque
of purple arches—
the gate I never enter
b w i t h i n
e n t
c i h
a a e H
u m L T
s e A N
e r B I
I Y R
with the spirit of
Borges (my tongue
crippled
by a lack
of language
like
acoustic mirrors reflecting sound
in a white noise
wondering between
floorboards
to keep
worrisome woe
from flourishing
in a desire that desires
to divvy up
the frontispiece of me—
sheer
lack of fathomable malformation
like shapeless thirst;
platter of veggie-stumps,
disregarding fads). I wait
in a mezzanine
in this magical realistic contes des fées,
wearing Venetian masks,
hypersensitive beyond the Bibliothèque—
crippled
by a lack
of language
like
acoustic mirrors reflecting sound
in a white noise
wondering between
floorboards
to keep
worrisome woe
from flourishing
in a desire that desires
to divvy up
the frontispiece of me—
sheer
lack of fathomable malformation
like shapeless thirst;
platter of veggie-stumps,
disregarding fads). I wait
in a mezzanine
in this magical realistic contes des fées,
wearing Venetian masks,
hypersensitive beyond the Bibliothèque—
My
toes are still frozen—
I am walking through walls like a hologram—
I am walking through walls like a hologram—
( ) (gaps of speechlessness
smeary )
like silvery eyes nearly darkening,
all vamoosed in a chill
like the Black Plague in 14th c. France
and dare I repeat?:
I
was
plunged
directly
into
France
when
I
looked
at
you—
Dreaming like Troubadours in Cathar country;
My Objet d’art
(my heart’s mane-flame flowing
like Richard the Lionheart’s— )
Château de Padiès
is where I could be,
in the Land of Pastel, kaleidescopic;
blooms as delicate as your hands, ballerina pose,
pink belly like a kitten, softer is my soul
in a flurry of snowflakes
in the new century
before “men
had to carry
their libraries
in their heads”
or something like my hair falling out,
replacing it with your snipped-off locks of hair—
modern day Charlotte-Rose de Caumont de La Force;
Giambattista Basile’s Petrosinella—you
finally threw a Royal shoddy debauchery
towards me in the pure evening that didn’t affirm
anything, that momentarily wobbled
and stirred my palette, shredding
the golden foil’d leaflets of our tiny chapter, this side
-show walking between us. How do I
explain such a bolstered subtraction,
devaluing the forged ideas and larks
licking within the aimless targets
of our dowsed undergrowth?
What you felt as compatible sensitivities
have now become scary opposites of the uneasy—
empty words going faster, faster through
my everywhere-I-look unleveling, this
jubilee of everything that hurries up.
like silvery eyes nearly darkening,
all vamoosed in a chill
like the Black Plague in 14th c. France
and dare I repeat?:
I
was
plunged
directly
into
France
when
I
looked
at
you—
Dreaming like Troubadours in Cathar country;
My Objet d’art
(my heart’s mane-flame flowing
like Richard the Lionheart’s— )
Château de Padiès
is where I could be,
in the Land of Pastel, kaleidescopic;
blooms as delicate as your hands, ballerina pose,
pink belly like a kitten, softer is my soul
in a flurry of snowflakes
in the new century
before “men
had to carry
their libraries
in their heads”
or something like my hair falling out,
replacing it with your snipped-off locks of hair—
modern day Charlotte-Rose de Caumont de La Force;
Giambattista Basile’s Petrosinella—you
finally threw a Royal shoddy debauchery
towards me in the pure evening that didn’t affirm
anything, that momentarily wobbled
and stirred my palette, shredding
the golden foil’d leaflets of our tiny chapter, this side
-show walking between us. How do I
explain such a bolstered subtraction,
devaluing the forged ideas and larks
licking within the aimless targets
of our dowsed undergrowth?
What you felt as compatible sensitivities
have now become scary opposites of the uneasy—
empty words going faster, faster through
my everywhere-I-look unleveling, this
jubilee of everything that hurries up.
I
feel Me
on all Upheaval
belonging to
the windshield
of my reshuffle
is in the wilds
of it, bellowing
emulsifiers.
I cannot do
this
anymore.
These poems
need
more “action”
and I need more sleep like
a pallbearer. I’m a black opal
in your sleepwalking eyes,
feeling out the complexities
in you,
of you, to know
the narrative
before I ask
for a refund, I ask:
It is as if Divine ‘Chirurgery’
could explain so vitally
these psychological incisions
I feel so deeply—
as if Adam’s rib
were splintered into
an infinite number of pieces,
metaphysically circling
each of us
like the icy rings
of Saturn.
on all Upheaval
belonging to
the windshield
of my reshuffle
is in the wilds
of it, bellowing
emulsifiers.
I cannot do
this
anymore.
These poems
need
more “action”
and I need more sleep like
a pallbearer. I’m a black opal
in your sleepwalking eyes,
feeling out the complexities
in you,
of you, to know
the narrative
before I ask
for a refund, I ask:
‘Oh you
debutante of detaining my every word
to your caged nuances, if I flush the horizon down the eternal larynx
of the heavenly destiny’s glowing skydiver’s touch,
will you open your infinitely-frustrated head
and perceive something good about me, just one thing,
some lovely trait that you recognize
that could go through and up towards our God of this Universe?’
to your caged nuances, if I flush the horizon down the eternal larynx
of the heavenly destiny’s glowing skydiver’s touch,
will you open your infinitely-frustrated head
and perceive something good about me, just one thing,
some lovely trait that you recognize
that could go through and up towards our God of this Universe?’
It is as if Divine ‘Chirurgery’
could explain so vitally
these psychological incisions
I feel so deeply—
as if Adam’s rib
were splintered into
an infinite number of pieces,
metaphysically circling
each of us
like the icy rings
of Saturn.
διάρεσις,
in
opening the flesh;
— Synchronicity of our opened roses. Neon red petals ablaze.
ἐξαίρεσις, in
taking out the rib;
— I am a Walking Foible. The rose, trimmed back too far.
σῦνϑεσις
in
closing up the part again.
—
Our roses, now decaying in the Garden of Cyrus.
I
now sing a soft song.
A song quieter than illness.
I sang this same song
quiet and ‘to myself’
as if with the phonic lips
of a dolphin
while I wrapped your gift
that I never gave to you
in shiny, silver-foil paper
of which I could see my reflection,
scattering light.
A song quieter than illness.
I sang this same song
quiet and ‘to myself’
as if with the phonic lips
of a dolphin
while I wrapped your gift
that I never gave to you
in shiny, silver-foil paper
of which I could see my reflection,
scattering light.
If I place myself
in Gauguin’s Winter Scene or in
in Gauguin’s Winter Scene or in
Monet’s The
Houses in the Snow, Norway,
will you stand
like a frozen skeleton
next to me while I whistle
past a cemetery,
thinking of Death’s
icicles,
like a knife to the back?
Like Apelles
hiding behind his paintings
to hear the judgments of spectators,
I am hidden behind each poem
waiting for your presence to appear,
to recognize yourself in the metaphors,
pulling me out of the text of indictments
like a bumbling performer saturated
with egg-slime!
will you stand
like a frozen skeleton
next to me while I whistle
past a cemetery,
thinking of Death’s
icicles,
like a knife to the back?
Like Apelles
hiding behind his paintings
to hear the judgments of spectators,
I am hidden behind each poem
waiting for your presence to appear,
to recognize yourself in the metaphors,
pulling me out of the text of indictments
like a bumbling performer saturated
with egg-slime!
On
my side of the terrain
half-morning has disappeared
before me.
It doesn’t know any better. Yes
what knows better than experience?
The experience of light, of the sky,
the way birds are there,
then not there,
the way that I remember
how I could literally
feel you
wane and slip away
in a half-moon re-adjustment—
this erosion of day-after-day, like
a house full of Karesansui Gardens, like
a revolving,
directionless
compass
I watch melt, glitch, vanish—
Geometric Figures is what we are,
triangles joined at the apices
of an hourglass
in self-reflecting reciprocals
pointing in opposite directions
unlike a tetragrammaton,
unlike the distorted perception of our past—
crossing through the new year
like the “decussation of pyramids”
so let us come together like a
“Pierce quincuncial projection” map—
red equator at the center-point:
severing the mind’s eye
before severing the ties?
half-morning has disappeared
before me.
It doesn’t know any better. Yes
what knows better than experience?
The experience of light, of the sky,
the way birds are there,
then not there,
the way that I remember
how I could literally
feel you
wane and slip away
in a half-moon re-adjustment—
this erosion of day-after-day, like
a house full of Karesansui Gardens, like
a revolving,
directionless
compass
I watch melt, glitch, vanish—
Geometric Figures is what we are,
triangles joined at the apices
of an hourglass
in self-reflecting reciprocals
pointing in opposite directions
unlike a tetragrammaton,
unlike the distorted perception of our past—
crossing through the new year
like the “decussation of pyramids”
so let us come together like a
“Pierce quincuncial projection” map—
red equator at the center-point:
severing the mind’s eye
before severing the ties?
