*
title:
from 434 E 17th Street out
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subtitle:
thereupon comes apologies or sorrows
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preface:
curious ennui, gestural vertigo
however an eulogy of tequila & quarantine
aspectabund
on the other hand, discriminative affections
of madonnas & bijoux
Koré in heaven, Justin in solitary squall
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in any event, belle tournure, not something always already constructed
this tension between being here, becoming there
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i told Milo his meows reminded me of a meadowlark
coughing up blood in the dark…
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this is a chance meeting
of a typewriter
& an umbrella on a rocking chair
in a brandy snifter
Bob Fosse dancing on the blade of an ice skate
in a raindrop
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the scrawl of my grrl sprawled in bed
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if every mother's son is romantic
then i awake to Mary Magdelene moaning mourning birds
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perhaps
the lurid claims of the marvelous
shipwreck
& the intangible
buoyancy
& the intangible
will someone plz. tell me
what i have sd
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the ethical ambiguity of this terrific "imagination"
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while folding fitted sheets
listening to Laura Smith sing "I'm Gonna Kill Myself"
i wonder which is worse:
the lonesome church bells or the lonely train whistle
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my happiness is a raindrop in wool mittens; naked lovers
forgetting narcissism in the epiphany of eroticism
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commentary:
similarly, the erotics of such nevertheless isolation
so one arrives, finally, at pleasure
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when my baby's beside me i know
i know i won't be lonely one more day
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in the span of so-many books
i have invented a fire extinguisher: a memory of autobiography
scuffed like graphite on tracing paper
the depth of narrative eschews the carburetor
a comfortable solution,
the repossession of the exterior by the interior
, unacknowledged
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exposition:
brown plaid flannel
pink suede shoes
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my breath bled a bottle of Bordeaux; my shadow
slipped into the asylum of a scarlet begonia…
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jazz, eventually
the imprimatur of a geisha in a dollhouse
razor-fan torch ballad
either way, the rip cord, frayed
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Norma Fraser sais
the first cut is the deepest
Fern Kinney sais
together we are beautiful
Imogen Heap sais
goodnight and go
it was raining
& i wielded my tongue of scotch
like a hypodermic needle
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weltanschauung, of sorts:
i had a dream D Suar & i sang
Charles Aznavour's "Je Bois"
a heart imbued w/ sudden nostalgia
we turned our ghosts loose amidst the gravitational pull
of our respective sirens
it's true everything abounds
it's just beware
the hidden razors in the rendezvous
of one's self
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if access to one's past is through a surreal sentence (def. 4b)
then this thought is a still life of an ironing board
clearly, you are better off if you know the extent of yr injuries or damages
yet, can one extend this consideration
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non-referential:
ha ha ha
fuck if i'd know
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i shadow box the museum butterflies on the wall
a whale in my heart can't prove this
sometimes i think Full Metal Jacket
in a decompression chamber
and i thought i moved on from ribbons & custom boxes:
last night or selected poems of Paul Carroll
perhaps i translated doubt wrong;
there was still this tremour in the holy
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proclamation:
AWAKE AND BE FINE, YOU FUCKER
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vociferously, this fever is an atelier of ferns
a cylinder of contemplation;
Nosferatu & Lolita debating an evening
of existentialism
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a pang is just distortion exiting the heart
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i may be right, i may be wrong
Dorothy sd something like "beautiful goddamn friend"
an egret shuttered like a photograph out of water
how succinct the bright streams
the comfort we feel as we bayonet
out of the barricades of our fugue
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the protocols of a sad song
an accidental translation of this evening's acroamatic asymmetry
an eyelash against a breast
to borrow another memory of yesterday's effectiveness
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i'll see there is no ikon
there is no plausibility
in hindsight, i guess
one finds their archangel
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commentary:
i am not above the mitigating descent, yet
let my atonement be displaced in ascent
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in January and difficult, surreal images
watching patron saints take quiet pages
tonight, i'd say fuck you like a grace note
watching the first quarter moon garrote
the pinned butterflies on the microscope slide of blank paper
in the rubberneck of the typewriter's absurd candor
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i bleach the scalpel
in a vial of perfume
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searching for a signature
homily, etc.
the transcendent signified
in a flat of angles
a careful consideration
of my place
a reflection of this
particular intersection
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exposition:
sunbeam through rainy leaves
this afternoon
a hurricane lamp against the imperative
wounds
"Fuck I want to be bound by devotion! Tortured
by passion!"
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whether the implication can be drawn that
Vicodin & viognier
can hush the blood of this cold
from being a mere reduction of Thanksgiving's
simple absurdités
belies the psychological possibilities...
a hedgehog in tap shoes
w/in the formal elements
of a red heart in a church
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more important
than the replacement of anxiety w/ whisky
is the redevelopment
of our belle tournure
Ceravoloing through our love affair
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proclamation:
i will never undress like an adieu
b/c i can't help falling in love w/ you
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imagery conflates eyesight w/ a pair of binoculars
this is true, w/ a subtle, particular tenor
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wearing cartography on one's heart-sleeves:
Arkansas makes me want to hold you
to the microscope of my heart
curating the calculus of distance
like a star-strewn rampart
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once i started walking
through the synchronized swimming of her love
it came to caterwauling chemistry
how do two tableau through the spiral stairs
drowning in the eddy of heartbeats
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Do Re Mi Fa Sol La Ti Merz
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pretty little angel eyes
you're astride something
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i walk through these empty pages
and strewn among the company of hope
i find you
naked, i guess, uninterpretable
as we contour into our own map
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