30 June 2012

come on in and take off yr skin and rattle around in yr bones # 5

            “Try to love the questions themselves like locked rooms and like books that are written in”

            the bloodstreams of paramedics •• at the 7-11 as they look out of the windshield toward a cityscape •• near the waterfront •• of an alligator in a tweed suit •• writing “Dear Diary” poetry full of Congressional Hearing jargon & rhetorical questions •• why isn’t palindrome spelled the same way backwards •• trying to forget skeletons in the closet •• (i.e. youthful frottage w/ movie studio glossies of Shirley Temple or flirting w/ a zebra mascot during a K-Mart grand-opening weekend) •• the recollections uncovered •• unpredictably •• like they were found in a pocket of a topcoat •• hung on a wooden hanger that belies the snug harbour •• of disjointed lines •• in a hypothetical poem called “doubting Joseph Burgess” •• it’s like Postmodernism in reverse •• a semicolon is just a broken bone •• that limns the tension w/in the lines •• so here we are concealing concessions •• “i plead the 3rd, senator” •• (as there’s no escaping this box w/ no sides) •• how can we abdicate our dreams •• when there’s no shelter w/in the double-agent charisma •• of a penguin martini-drunk & reading a first-edition Roget’s in the back of an ambulance •• at the boat ramp •• tumbling for an answer •• w/ the tragic melancholy of a sterile white stretcher •• reframed as an analytical question •• “what evidence can you list that wd substantiate the claim that ‘a sterile white stretcher is tragically melancholic?’ •• each of us must have, at one point, looked past these latent emergencies •• Aucun chemin de fleurs ne conduit a la gloire •• as the synonyms inside a one-time pad •• start to hum an updated jazz standard •• (b/c the idle time between calls of EMTs are like Salvation Army brass bands) beginning a different set of surreally existential enquiries

29 June 2012

come on in and take off yr skin and rattle around in yr bones # 4


combat jazz shrapnel bandage
oh, wreckage of the chapter of heaven; this evening's
absurdly contemporary
leit motiv
in a raindrop—
winter    snow      benches              lamppost          trees
collapsed lung
[the nurse who had come along
to treat the sufferers
went berserk;] “now, why wd i say this to you?”
gorgeous, heartsick; lullabies
for the ghosts
w/in...it’s the off-the-cuff languor
of a mercurial-warm sweater
around 2300
what a wonderful world at last i am free,”
she’ll whisper
how abrupt the clarity
unrequited passion on the cusp of my thirties

i want a bourbon
as strong as an ordnance fire...

28 June 2012

come on in and take off yr skin and rattle around in yr bones # 3

upholding & destroying sonnets w/ hermeneutic treason

the tuberculosis of a broken heart
w/ a Vidal Sassoon foundation of tremendous splendor
i came to you w/ schizophrenia in my art
fancying a train ride around the Island of Sodor.

forthwith, the treason of a clock on the wall:
personified by nine birds on the roof of a submarine
twittering a tumbler of irrigated absinthe, in thrall
to a dry dock of aforesaid whims & dreams...

O love, let us estrange ourselves from this apocrypha
w/ a jigsaw puzzle & potted ferns
as a bolt gun whispers, silently, ----------> Hosanna
whilst we adjourn these soap opera nocturnes.

i believe there is a meaning and we needn’t to go to the extreme—
something-something-something Love is a Many Splendored Thing

27 June 2012

come on in and take off yr skin and rattle around in yr bones # 2

untitled, or to Scott who sometimes writes sensually suggestive syntax

geranium oil & Formica moonlight
a shutter speed is a sacrum; a wedding dress means
brutally unasleep—
so let us deconstruct stress w/ a lot
of positivity, to wit:
a bibliography of fog in a house of mirrors;
an f-stop is a barren limb (w/ criterial seasonal landscape)
i.e., my obsession w/ nervousness
notwithstanding a cuckoo clock
coughing up blood
in a hospital bed w/ a codeine drip
to cloud certain proclivities of parallax error—
a few years earlier
the bokeh of her blouse, clarified in archetypal
an escapist image of whisky against a discreet thigh;
her tonsils of tungsten light—
we never wanted things to turn beige
but our halos
developed inarticulately, & unplugged...

                        a shibboleth of once bold white lines;

come on in and take off yr skin and rattle around in yr bones # 1

definitive juxtapositions w/ a metaphor as explosive as a powder keg in a hot-air balloon

emblematic of the contemporary moment
of my evening
the ghost of “99 Luftballons”
abt the absinthe on my nightstand
sometimes i dream
in the curtsey of a European newspaper
between the lungs
of a cigarette as i dismember
w/ unshelved books or a new compilation
of misguided concepts
still, in other intimate moments
aperçus strewn
in more lush & impenetrable thoughts
in particular
the berserk iconography
probably .txt karaoke in Weimar Berlin
w/ Errol Flynn
psychologically weathering
a broken projector
recycling angles like a rhombus
on Quaaludes
if the metaphor had a sound it wd sound
like this, i suppose
swashbuckling through Wikipedia’s
entry on Cognitive Dissonance
as i cd never imagine the quieter moments
benignly brutal
if need be, as we bemoan