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! 

POEM

                                              These days, 
I have to force myself to eat fruits and vegetables, 
to dodge the growling howls of temptation for sweetlings, 
and who else has noticed that Vegetarians have “beef”
with beef? Grilling out in the south is like 
icy wind-needles 
flying through the air like 
blades of steel 
through one’s Giuseppe Arcimboldo-like fleshy fruit.

                                               These days, 
the early summery helium-heat full of buzzing things——
these flies of mid-Spring
allowing me to become the true Sultan of Swat, 
the honeysuckles lining every lining, every soft coat 
of pollen painting a yellow-bell across my nostrils, 
tulip upon tulip, glory and grace in one’s face,
glory of petal-colors of every sprouted bejeweled 
uprising, but Thomas Edison 
would have been envious because I make flower bulbs 
light up,
and ask yourself: Do Midgets need Shrinks? 
     
                                 In the Botanical Gardens
I’m wearing new Speakers: the “Rubber Soul”
as great as ever,
while I plunge into an acid-eaten statue.
I think of Raymond Lull
when he saw the cancerous, rotting bosom——
                                     visual feathers
as if angels are like optic-beams in a moist air,
today, this very day like 
a seeing-glass pleasing the images we yearn and desire to be 
before us, without having to move a muscle, 
but more than that: something besieged in a yatter 
like bagpipes playing in your ear without notice, 
and come to think of it: 
there must be something Irish about each and everyone of us,
with or without the kilt, because “wingbags”
are everywhere,
but we’re all stand-up kind of people
unless we’re sitting down,

and like an armored guard, I walk with a purpose
through every airport (of the mind) 
because Security is so “tight” nowadays that even
pinholes are burglar proof.

People need BreathaLIAR tests
or less bitter pills to swallow?
Stepped in a wad of bubblegum
                    in the Garden (written as if a diary entry),
like walking on a Tarkovsky jetstream of the enchanted peels
that reveal what only one feels, or in this case, the smell of it
like feces on the bottom of the shoe,
but much like in the way that manure can contribute to 
the sweet aromas of roses,
the same can be said about one’s anxieties, frailties, 
guilts and feelings of every sort
that can contribute to 
beauty, an encrusted shape of testimonial reports 
that bring a joy to life 
like trying to tickle-pink a flamingo,
but what is possibly impossible for the unstoppable?
Think of attempting to “moon”
a werewolf. Pointless beams pointed elsewhere! 
No-can-do
says the moon, itself: that pale, translucent balloon 
of swoonsong 
singing us all to sleep
and this morning I awoke and felt short
-changed when I looked up and saw the bold red “11:10”
before my eyes (ironing-out the irony). 
My next thought 
                thought of itself and went something like this: 

When babies start teething 
              the Tooth Fairy shudders in delight. 

             Our doppelgangers put our names in a Bingo Roller 
             like hidden words inside of icebergs turning to flames 
             like the Hindenburg,

and what if someday we all meet one another 
in Hilbert’s Paradox of The Grand Hotel 
in the Yester-“ago”
of some frequent misting of heavenly homesickness, 
avoiding all voids in the tardy riddle of life?

FRUITBODY

The House has vanished like 
a carriage without a horse, without a ground, 
without an herb or seeds or a prophet to write about it, 

or a mausoleum to sing through walls of textile the song 
of the bodiless fruit-trees that we once were 
like minnows, as windows, like what the wind swims through 

(a window, like a still-life of frozen wind, like this, not like this)
& a door reaches out and opens me for once 
& what it finds within my crystallized interstitial is an 

unending palette of windows full of starlight skies 
& every shade of possible Daylight. The windows 
look back at us waiting for the sweet breezes within us to wisp 

out of us & press against them in a bliss beyond the knowing—
& what calls out to us is a reaper of grim, grinning, a dim light 
in a distance, summoning one near to it

& it is as if another part of me had ruptured 
like the smoky spores at the center of a puffball's fruitbody 
that erupt into plumes at impact  

as I took a sophisticated Mephistopheles & entrapped him 
in a bubble. The rustic fence ruptured open & Death's Sting 
stung itself.  

POEM

Why photograph 
when there's an infinite camera 
inside of my neocortext 

where premature images 
were stored before pre-history...
My holographic brain

floating in an incubator 
beyond physical dimensions: see-through 
but unable to see in to

because my progenies were phantoms, 
kissing every tip of the spear. 
Unextinguishable, forever En Fuego, 

as if I'd eaten a Super Mario Fire Flower 
every hour, 
firing off like ironic neurons, 

feeling waterlogged 
like a wobbly-legged Don Quixote; 
the unquenchable drenching, jellifying. 

POEM

Madness 
Often blows through my head of Mount Vesuvius 
Like a dandelion lobotomy of daddylonglegs stirring, 

Aerially lured, untwisting their feeble fists, smoothing-out 
Crumpled anthropomorphic origami entities, 
Standing without bones, propped up, caricatural, like 

Fata Morgana, 
Gorgoneion upon every door, 
Kitty-fur enduring thistles, thorns, briers, 

Raisin you wrinkle in a purple skirmish behind an easel, 
Unblessed pew where I unname myself, 
Spread throughout an uncandid Cantos, stricken 

Against my bouncing persona like a wheel of firecrackers, 
A shepherd’s nightlight, feeding the fragments their leaves 
In a whitewashed penitentiary field of cumulus sheep.

IN THE FANTASY

I’d be a betrayed Wizard of Oz (spilling the beans) behind an already-ripped curtain or a see-through veil, tremors in both eyes, smiling on the Jumbotron (the gold standard). 

Stars on a staircase. 

Meteors on a doorframe. 

The universe in my waking eye, aureole aura or an air of.  

Jagged are the edges of all fields of perception. Eliquation: only maps are aware of visible borders. Draw a line here, a line there. Where is the unreachable finger? 

In my ears, animals jeer from tree-tops. A piece of bark has been ripped from a portion of this pine tree: a mustard-colored wetness. Trigger-happy, like a berserk masseuse, I touch the open edifice. 

On my side of the tunnel (where I want you to be) my equilibrium is at the brim & a face appears within it while everyone sleeps. While everyone sleeps, the sun’s infallible speech-horn is enough to blow the covers off of the big-toes of old folks & youthful tottles, high-schoolers & their sad babyfat faces. 

This dawn, like every dawn, the sun rose from out of my spirit like something that hums above your home.

POLLEN WOOL BLOOM

Gorgeous your nape 
like a velvety cape 
I long to touch 

in full shuddering, 
unshakably existing 
without mediators, 

riding upon Love’s clamor 
without bondage, without 
plenipotentiary-potential; 

seamstress of the depths 
of my Being invading 
my passions like sex-idlers 

touching a thorn 
to see if it really exists—
red, so much red, 

dethroning the dermis 
the way love blooms 
like pollen wool kissing 

soundly the vineyards 
of threads, endless threads 
of our inner-pink hydrangeas, 

camellias, or Carmilla’s scarlet 
desire, or the wear-and-tear 
of one’s psyche 

after a mastectomy? 
Let Love’s pain be lush lips,
a dollop of this, a dollop 

of that! Oh do you know 
how I just want to be 
touched by more than 

curiosity? I want my lips 
to be soft chewables 
in a staccato cursive 

around a torso 
like possessed machines 
unable to stop 

at the caravanserai 
of Life’s unending volcano-crash, 
blizzard pastels 

of livewires; retrotransit 
bodies elevated, 
who, like me, is saddled 

in-between spangled masks 
that you place on my face 
of irrigated circumflexes 

like torn music in our coterie 
below the swept windows 
of mysterious verbiage, 

playful circumlocutions 
sending our femurs aerial, 
making the floorboards lighter, 

houseplants shredding 
in an esteem 
of what could never regather.

THE INCOMPLETE ARMOR OF THE EVERYDAY PHENOMENOLOGICAL MINUTIAE 

Because Time is as cruel
        as Phalaris of Akragas—
because Currents Events
        form Future Trends, so is said, 
one might become stand-offish,
best at avoiding avarice, 
unlike the rooms of villainy triumvirates—
                               
                                                      self-stung 
I am daily becoming a new shape
                       or shape-like thing, 
                 irregularly connived or contrived
in strange specifical transmutations,
disentangling from & usurping all Riddles 
                       in favor of humoring them,
nourishing an outward stomach
            of foreseeable multitudes,
                                pregnant with Folly,

                              I’d rather frame my conscience
                                          in a tessaract 
                           so that my body
                                  becomes a oneness
                           in an uprising
                                   as if coming in contact
                           with The Large Hadron Collider’s 
                                  beams of protons & ions.
                     
                                                   In one sumptuous blur

                    through my haunted corneas, 

                     my flailing flesh drips
                             
                                      through denigrated tethers

                                      of majestic blemish
       
             where what wrote a roof over me

                                         with effectual prerogatives 

                                 in blips of sublimity

                                           yields to refocus

                   through reoccurring storms uncontained,

                                because an unreachable unleashing 
                                                           
                                                            of refracted edges

                                         of phenomenal nerves

                   I give back to orbit in a breathless residence

                                                                    forms against

                                        an intervening Potential

                                where I confront myself

                  at the peak of Abstraction

like just-bit-into-fruit-juice spray,
obscured in ocular pools,
notwithstanding calcination
like the Golden Calf

burnt
            to
                   powder                                          
                                       

                                                       

like my body 
my volatile body 

of celestial pearl

compressed purlieu 
dilated 
somewhere 
in the center 

of 
                          V      i      
                                         s 
                                               i    b    l     e                       
                                                                             
                                                                        &                  
In
                          V      i       
                                         s 
                                               i    b    l     e



                                    DYED                WEDDED           WITH            INKS       

of one’s doxography              with an ax to grind,
          Anaxagoras’s verity, 

                             demerits upheld, struck-through
 
the way that I am obligated like a holographic goblin
playing a violent violin in pomp orthodoxy;

                 scepters held like the fountain of youth
in        

                      one’s 

                                          fighting 

                                                                              fist. 

                                                       I proceed
                         as a kind of defected Zealot.       Yes, 

                                                       I move forward
                         as a subdivision of Self—

impersonators following impersonators 

& remember this:

                                                    when my body is laid to rest

                                in my casket,  a glow will rise out of it
                 with a clanking racket, 

& what hands will dig to uproot my glowing embers?
what hands of one with a crackled kettle of the mind?

               
nonverbal 

                   verbs 

                                 elsewhere 

                                                    in an unprivileged space

                                                                            for metamorphoses. 

POEM

    We are all
    wondrously cracked
                   mirrors: 

      Take the quicksilver
                    out of the back 
                           & it makes a window
                  out of each of us—

           fleeting clouds
                          in our pores,
             
                                   & thus
    like recollections
                     long vanished,

               we are like
                      the swooning trees
           that are in search of birds. 

YOU AND I, AS GEOMETRIC FIGURES IN A QUINCUNX

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:

           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—

                                                                         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
                                                                                   
                                                                                     
                                                                                   
                                                                                       

                                                     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—

                                                                          My toes are still frozen—
                                         
                                          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.

                                                                      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:

‘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?’ 

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.

If I place myself            

                                   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!

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?