If this moment were a tunnel I would shape it into a horn
each note a pole shift in minute time
like the gold in peripheral heat lightening
revealing the wreckage of the most distant
and obtuse recordings of Beethoven you ever heard.
For every color gleaned from ancient poetry
there is a bell tower and stained glass chapel
built on an old angry hill
where the vengeful Gods of the old testament
have their symbols and endless
empire upon the Earth.
If this moment were the wind in October
it would find a loose fence door to possess with
violent spasms and vent the spleen
of the world through the darkest
holy wood.
Sunday, December 2, 2007
Microwave
I spend a second in your flair
like an intelligent animal
fascinated by chrome.
I change the channel; turn away;
turn on the microwave,
a sea of chemistry
moving between me
Beijing and the monster
movie clawing at my
heel.
The cat just ate a moth.
An animal crooned in the gorge.
The flow of instincts
is channeled down the
main wire blue line
crossing the red line
somewhere between a cell
phone tower and Starbucks.
I spend $3.95.
I spend my life in your
illusion,
distracted.
like an intelligent animal
fascinated by chrome.
I change the channel; turn away;
turn on the microwave,
a sea of chemistry
moving between me
Beijing and the monster
movie clawing at my
heel.
The cat just ate a moth.
An animal crooned in the gorge.
The flow of instincts
is channeled down the
main wire blue line
crossing the red line
somewhere between a cell
phone tower and Starbucks.
I spend $3.95.
I spend my life in your
illusion,
distracted.
Psychic Driving
To hell with the price of gas and street light cameras,
I'll pass right through towns like these, through
clusters of restaurant chains and convenience stores,
Going nowhere fast, no seat belt or insurance
with the abandon of someone of who's discovered
the parade of marketing strategies psychic
driving to the center of what motivates us basically.
A fractal glistens in the rear view mirror.
I swing by the Teriyaki House but it's been leveled.
In the parking lot graffiti on the dumpster
is strangely appealing with the wabisabi
decay of rain and bird shit.
A Miles Davis quote from the seventies
skips on the CD player.
I make my way through Vietnam Town,
cross the bridge, in and out of other cars,
into a residential neighborhood toward
the kid with a split level home, a beat box
and a prayer flag above his door.
I offer him a poem and he disintegrates
from the unkempt lawn.
Back down the driveway, exhaust, fresh road;
I head toward the amber horizon the ghost
of what transpired psychic driving
well into the night.
The CD skips
all night.
I'll pass right through towns like these, through
clusters of restaurant chains and convenience stores,
Going nowhere fast, no seat belt or insurance
with the abandon of someone of who's discovered
the parade of marketing strategies psychic
driving to the center of what motivates us basically.
A fractal glistens in the rear view mirror.
I swing by the Teriyaki House but it's been leveled.
In the parking lot graffiti on the dumpster
is strangely appealing with the wabisabi
decay of rain and bird shit.
A Miles Davis quote from the seventies
skips on the CD player.
I make my way through Vietnam Town,
cross the bridge, in and out of other cars,
into a residential neighborhood toward
the kid with a split level home, a beat box
and a prayer flag above his door.
I offer him a poem and he disintegrates
from the unkempt lawn.
Back down the driveway, exhaust, fresh road;
I head toward the amber horizon the ghost
of what transpired psychic driving
well into the night.
The CD skips
all night.
Awareness
Energy is not wasted
when time is perfectly crafted.
The custodian of time is death.
The depth of a moment
is infinitely divisible
While absolute.
when time is perfectly crafted.
The custodian of time is death.
The depth of a moment
is infinitely divisible
While absolute.
To Yolk a Rising Sun
There nightingale, purr a gentle gnarl
One last shrill to be shorn from
The loving recess of your breast,
A cockle's chamber of royal jelly
In the lavender pocket of your broth
There is a lark of becoming
Heathered by the dawn,
Where pass the pearls of starlight
Nightingale, spread your wings
An event horizon from where is feathered
Our cherished dove perched
Upon the broken harps of heaven
One last shrill to be shorn from
The loving recess of your breast,
A cockle's chamber of royal jelly
In the lavender pocket of your broth
There is a lark of becoming
Heathered by the dawn,
Where pass the pearls of starlight
Nightingale, spread your wings
An event horizon from where is feathered
Our cherished dove perched
Upon the broken harps of heaven
Improvisation 2
I am the child not the kid since a kid is baby goat. I offend the goats; these goats are easily offended. They are not offended; they are my words.
I remember as a child sitting upon tiny trees. I sit there eating wild berries. It's all there is. Tiny trees and berries.
I won't tell you about the hornets.
OK I remember: Here we have a long black snake taken from the brush and briars. Upon the road it's molested and teased by kids with sticks. This snake, furious, arches it's black back that glistens in the sun, and spits a mouth like cats.
These are my memories, my memories, as if from a tree they
drop rotten flowers; These words bloom and are quickly rotten.
Mommy please change the subject. Always she changes the subject and she goes on and on.
I tell you the stone walls of New England they go on and on. They are so lonely. They've survived long past the wooden shacks and barns that have with the years collapsed within their cellars.
I remember as a child sitting upon tiny trees. I sit there eating wild berries. It's all there is. Tiny trees and berries.
I won't tell you about the hornets.
OK I remember: Here we have a long black snake taken from the brush and briars. Upon the road it's molested and teased by kids with sticks. This snake, furious, arches it's black back that glistens in the sun, and spits a mouth like cats.
These are my memories, my memories, as if from a tree they
drop rotten flowers; These words bloom and are quickly rotten.
Mommy please change the subject. Always she changes the subject and she goes on and on.
I tell you the stone walls of New England they go on and on. They are so lonely. They've survived long past the wooden shacks and barns that have with the years collapsed within their cellars.
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