she tattooed born to be loaded on her
bronze sphinx holiday, while the limo
conceded the election
ten turkeys provided further impetus for
ralph nader’s presidential aspirations
starring in a rocky movie as apollo creed
in this chicago of burglars
the properties of humans
on windswept ice
With the giant help of the public stars, Ned Corneille at the fire pavilion. The bugs of the puppet steps, hollywood hardware from a god, busy with the firm citizens. The position of the pills, the position of the lambs, the sun of lovers is barns in the firmament.
fast trotting dog
until mercy turns our way and the seasons feel
dream fossil stamps
the fungus of another night
the dog of another viewer
viewer of another night
the morning gland
the drug of another fungus
the diurnal gland
the gland of another day
and the seasons fuel
fast dog of another year
the trotting dog of another season
in the rainfalls
come & git it
Mysterious clerks. Sororities of rose. Old tin can personality, the sum of hobos multiplied by hibiscus. Nursing a sore radio station, poor sad sandwiches, underwater ruse. An old ice adulthood, summers in an indian morn, or the tired sloping sun.
There are yellow ducks in underwater town. And in old overwater town, the birdbacks crisk. Ices the closing sun. Toward the end of the water there’s an old hobo tin — between the morning and the insomniac night stands a gallon of old radio and a welded tin of the glare off silver b29s.
Stemming from a Wyoming rose, old roman adulthood, silver dusks in ducktown. Toward the end of personality is the wine you seek, hobos. You’ll find it in that last sliver of consciousness, like an eclipsing moon. That very last piece of window pie, hobos. Come and git it.
lines riffed off my last 6 posts
we are heading, they said, for a renowned disaster.
a gigantic living world, amoeba no end.
driven skyward, in an ingenuous eye
the antique void of paper ships
hustling nirvana in the dark rain
gleaming fly the golden machine gun
not even high rockets can claim to name
intimate humid dreamings
the endless silent procession of mute and inscrutable clouds overhead at 2 in the morning while everyone is sleeping, when the air is close and congenial, a buddy just over your left shoulder.
when the air is close and the clouds flow plasma past, could it be that people are all dreaming intimate and humid dreamings, perhaps focused on some distant disaster far out in space, or on slowly bringing an alternate dimension in for a landing?
or on deflecting the orbit of an extraterrestrial comet, or keeping a small cliff in place in Wyoming, or protecting a factory deep in the past who powers the vital life source of the american sparrow?
so they leave the paneled rooms; storm cocoon
I’m sorry, there is too much death
they said, in the midst of a gigantic living world
and they sat down and would move no more
my arms encompassed the gigantic living world,
but they were focused on an amoeba that had met its end
under a careless boot
the mass of the proton, I explained, is 90% empty space; inside is a blob of what can only be called probability. many, many spirits and underlings can sneak in those giant holes in everything.
some people, I explained, are electrically wired for certain experiences, dire and damned. it is not apt to say they can be cured but rather they are impermanently damned. wrecked, fished out, they expire, they lose, draining away through those infinite holes, psychic sieve. their electricity will rule this world and the next. all will be whirled, compressed and flung into the black hole, a billion years hence. so, now let us stand and walk.
remember angel foods
driven skyward by lonely children, april’s malfeasance was a tremendous boon to the laxative industry. meanwhile down at the cannery, women in a line hurled and hinched late into the night, slapping silvery fish wetly. hunched over inexpressive bins, the manager interrupts momentarily. happiness and a hardline for your perusal. morning with a loose gloaming on.
tangling from her hand, went paintlessly down into the gloom, like a living bikini. the burn ward, painlessly white, may seem fit to redefine the value of empty pages, but sheer numbers doth not the kudos make. ineluctably gimlet the eye, seemingly into the night, late at the inveterate brim.
puzzleless meatframe, puppetlessly, ingenuously calm, a hardline for your prayers. silvery women canning staring fish, or staring women canning silvery fish — when representing the inexpressive void, the antique avocations of this world, one is like a living whale invoking paper ships.
your writing should be a teenage vampire, copulating in the apocalyptic dark, a sign of strange things, moot and a dork.
like an actor, delaying riviera, hustling in the dark rain, wafting, tetherless, as fish sleep.