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Sunday, April 13, 2014

demon, attosecond

What you seek is seeking you. --Rumi

The moon gets smaller as the night comes on. Rises over the bay and constructs. Time pink green and brief as love. I live on a flamingo wing as the sun forms gold from shadows and windows.

For a minute in that traffic, the static speaks of rain, machines, cancer and harp seals, trucks, guns, and  holy words. Slipping into darkness leaching all the beauty from a slowing day. I make the moment given me.

There is nothing new but novelties. I had my way. Discovered roads, went wild. I remember everything. I immediately forget. I have the memory of a child.

Night creeps on the day. Squawking gulls speaking of their brittle eggs. I feel a landlocked whale who's wandered in bad bays and gorged on fish until he's trapped inside a space to prove how patient is extinction.

If you're seeking enlightenment, this journey ends in the middle. You will not argue. Desire set its talons deep: The constant need to create more creations. To see more than necessary. Feel more than prescribed.

Broken laptop with lucite earrings and eucalyptus leaves. Pineapple and lemon on velvet in shade. Untitled shipwreck. Silk patterns, bright colors. Moving music. Who's fucking my baby now?

O to live in a diva's day. To have one's stimulants used against thee. It was difficult to find a conversation that did not lead to love-poisoning-love. Difficult to find something that wasn't boring or disgusting.

A yellow light advising caution gleams against the last lavender. My heart is beating like a million trains. The darkness comes down like a dagger too eager to rain and thrill me. My mind is over in the sense of seeking.

But all the things we don't-know-why take night on its back, and on the carcass of the moment past new thoughts form like fungi dividing the living and dead.

These are not the sexy epiphanies of brilliant youth but steady streams of task and stat, face and judgment, date and time. Metaphysical dust. The stuff that poets keep clean.

Everything I've tried has failed to solve me, yet a deep hope remains. It must, beneath  the pain and trivia. The night is lighter later by a moment than the previous. I see limited men in limitless oblivion.

At first comes a lack of time to unravel complexities. Then an abundance of time in which all these dimensions are clowns to insanity. The closest we get to understanding can only be confusion.

Like an insect who breathes just 24 hours, I see that I am grains of time--a second-by-second guess. It is impossible to do anything but stare. To move on automatic with some vague notion of what to seek and where.

Eternity gives eternity to perfect our deformities. I constantly curl to places my soft parts stuck. I was sixteen. I was twenty-five. Thirty-three and  thirty-four. I was tired of looking back and saying that I was. A starving carnivore.

Beyond solution, deep in self-pity, the earth around me seemed to crack. If you pieced its puzzle, you'd see a war crime ripped from the headlines bleeding onto the icecaps while someone gave an explanation why.

Desperate for shelter, I went seeking human connections saying even the homeless find them one warm night under the punishing stars. A moment you wonder Am I the only one? And something says No.

But X is subject to rapid total change. Moods vary, events alter, beauty calcifies. It seems impossible with these gadgets, anthems, and pills. Which keep us going through mayhem, response, and the critics. On the most-pristine oil spills.

I found myself surrounded by needles and cameras, injustice, frustration, and death. Everyone was becoming more evil. The greater the evil the more they spoke of harmony and love. Whoever spoke I trusted less.

No no, I said, that isn't right. It's just self-interest we are exhausted, dying, trying to get by while lucky-few command us to go further faster and obey, and we do, without recourse.

Strip-searched to the skeleton because I had to be, I heard gunshots in the blue and This happens too. Methane filled the air. At night I stared at couples kissing in the bars and wondered about my future food source.

Words curdled, broke down like organic matter into something I clung to, a fungus parsing the living and dead. The things we hear, the things we say, mean little on the day-to-day.

For instance, I can speak of freedom but it feels a speech created for me. Emptying its value on broken bridges, systems. Courts, and cities. The list is endless really. Today a woman was shot for no reason by a kid with no name.

Look around. You'll feel the pain. You'll see it as design. The divine right of kings who do with power what one does, until we're broke and trapped, resigned and high.

I think I've been authored by a secret committee inbred as a pharaoh's afterlife. Any passing luxury sedan may determine how tomorrow ends. May understand the speeches written for me. Why the bombs drop for real.

I will not fear such heroes. My amen ascends to a blue sky and waits for a goddess to reply. After such hopes, one realizes his status is in doubt. That no reply may come. And I will fear such heroes in my time.

Such talk and my head clouds images: Lamborghini/volcano/giraffe birth/commando surgery/mandrill/exodontia/bruise. I set sail on a ship with sails of skin and landed in the annals of pornography beside the wounded angels.

Adapted to a challenging environment. Survived and hated it. Stopped believing newspapers, talk show hosts, antiheroes, the all-powerful dollar, villains, supervisors, the script of heaven above.

Got so high I spit on stars, then felt bad because I knew they're set like me. To die. Avoiding death. To tell     themselves: Eternal life is awful. To wait to believe.

To believe in nothing, even disbelief. Drifting here and there repeating words I'd overheard. A puppet of prophets. Or their silent unmoored companion. What am I floating for really?

To doubt the lessons of poets I admired? And the music that I hear. Is it really genius? Or just a crude commercial for an ancient king?

Metaphor clarification innuendo and slur: There's me only at the end of the night. I go to bed relieved of light. Rain oils on the city. Rocks me to sleep like tsunamis of lava under the red-lightning sky.

In dreams I once broke the equations. Everything seemed deep and vital, fearless and alive. I unpacked a neverending train of the biggest-ever prizes. I ate bouillabaisse from the Stanley Cup on a regular basis.

On a drawbridge leading to a sloop in a river braided with fish, Kate Upton and Blackbeard did the whole Kama Sutra. I stood alone in my middling existence looking for such things to put me over.

But X is subject to rapid total change. In time without effort, I started seeing shit everywhere. Bad burgers sat in my stomach like poverty. Fat clouds of silence my art. My words now brilliant for fools.

I'd hallucinate with ease. From pole to pole, it was intoxicating. I lived a life I was not really living. When I woke I'd done great things no one would appreciate. But when I woke, I was the man I always recognized.

Hemorrhaging money. Smoking dope, a golden liver begging more. They put me on medication on medication on medication. I lived in harmony with radio stations broadcasting bland hits and arctic prophets coming true.

Saw poverty, addiction, as an arc of my story til that moment the aggressive walls flaunted photos of paradise in drought. Nothing kills dreams like alarms. But the dream of the next night's even-softer arms.

Woke up jealous to the sound of rain on tin, stained glass, early shadows, velvet thumping, gentle cars, birdsong in a forest of malachite. To sounds I thought the privileged hear. I heard only in the distance.

Talked back down from my deluded heights, I thought Love was next to take me higher. The proof is in the wound I was when I found myself once more. Living a life I was not really living. A starving carnivore.

My love was everything you've heard, ultimately nothing to me. A silent siren you tempt to sing by being near.  To no avail because she's modest, honest, full of fear.

What happens when the light of god has no effect upon the flowers waiting in you? Do you not ascribe your flowers to a different source when they arise?

I loved for nothing. The get-yourself-together-and-forget-it-man well-wishing friends prescribed wore thin as I found memories in every song. Wondering when love becomes weird. If obsession is wrong.

She's there again in the bedroom. Not naked but not clothed. The bluebirds listen deeply. Silent summer air. Our bodies mortared with sweat in the attic. It is late afternoon, and lace haunts the sun.

I sleep. I wake. I go. And the dream ends with its understanding. In a pile of cloud that never was, the breath of myth in the air. Love passes like nausea. You can only self-eviscerate so long before the torture ends itself.

One day I will embrace what is open before me. It will be free as the beautiful describe. With a dying bird, a kiss on the sidewalk, a window through the world I see. In my eyes, not my fantasies.

Maybe I comfort some heartbroken heart with this sympathetic hurricane, and feel you through the darkness. Toward the hazy spring we end together. Forgetting the punishing stars.

Maybe I don't and you think I have misplaced all that's real of human value. I have grown accustomed to discredit, hear your argument, and won't deny its merit.

We could go round for days but I would still be just a crazy beast with his evanescence hampered by the temptation to endure.

How sad then to emerge as gladiator in a stadium of infinite blood. Given no option but to wrestle with monsters.  Living like the spasms of a severed limb, acting out of habit like everything is there.

That's the Great Aching. How can one desire less perfection? Blood light kiss. Form breath rain. It isn't easy for the angels to create these things. To deny what they have made to keep us craving.

Or admit it's difficult to deeply feel as years go by. That your senses are an industry burning up stimuli to leave you a jaded monster complaining the sun today was too golden.

If you're seeking enlightenment, the journey ends here. With meanings mothballed in old words that slug to recognition of long-lost priority and end absurd as the babble of a child.

Check it: Stock-footage blonde and white twister at 00.22:54 show Pagani blown to hell, wheatfields, petri dish, corn syrup, polar bear.

If this is what awaits us, is it not a miracle? Yes or no is either side of the wrong answer. The light that keeps us safe is hot enough to burn. It exposes every vesicle. Supermodel sucking popsicle.

My head nods like buoys in the mint-sea fog, saying Yes. But it's a follower's yes. The agreement of one who lives through another. As Christ peters into Paul, experience proceeds to law that says the days are governed strictly.

All this, and the universe loves me. As it loves you and the rest of humanity. My vanity is wounded because I am not loved especially. At heart I hate equality.

I must be loved above the rest. Be blessed by a butterfly for all you know. I see that now is not the way. So I desire to untangle my desire, becoming more entwined.

People like to say the dead survive in memory, but they fade too. Like words or suns or rock formations. Like a demon to damnation. Everything must go.

Misdeeds and planets, miracles, crowns. Even if that means sorrow and pain. With the juiciest tears ready to flow from drug-company actor on cue.

Diversions kiss together. Clouds roll away. I imitate my angels chewing dip in twilight angles as homeless men give up their Gloria under blue sonnet skies, rainclouds like aircraft carriers sweeping the west.

The starlings and seagulls on the cables of big ships shake their heads like a memory is stuck, and the sky turns another shade of pink and gold and bigger blue that brings the rain.

Accept, indiscriminately, the rainbow left behind. Miracles, become commonplace. Sometimes I remember. I immediately forget. I have the memory of a child.

Of a perfectly healthy human child. Still growing out of her clothing and shoes as if she's reaching for the body of a giantesse who would look down upon me sadly, and drop a giant tear for me to drown.

It doesn't happen that way. We stop somewhere, collect experience and serve it up like a plate of rice and beans. This is what I have concocted.

When it comes I hope the beauty that coped away my saddest days will be released and all the lies will run. I need something different, something clear. But if you need to know exactly what, your journey ends here.

A fog blows over the hippocampus. Obfuscate the clear with me and be like it. Cloud the severity of seeing so much so clearly and knowing more than should be known in the lifetime of a minor god. Let no fungus grow when you are gone.

You don't come from heaven either. The blue is black. The dream is over. The unknown is the known. From here there can be no sobbing eye. You know the way shit works way too well to cry.

I have seen it for you. I have felt it with you. Whatever it was. Speak to me between your sighs. And if you find yourself in fear, take these words and blow them to the sky.

Saturday, July 14, 2012

January of the Ameoba

i. twas fighting season

One haze in which that beautiful mirage
revealed itself mirage
the blue hung thick
as cordial gel 
cherries bleed
in chocolate bells.

Every day the light 
of another excuse for creation
set beautiful traps to call me in 
like sum dum animal

the days in love extended
vanished as the April bay
hides summer murders
behind a calendar of sparkling May--
June gunshots anonymous
making mothers make scenes
banal and raw 
as anything again again again.

One step ahead of my echo dreaming of spring
attempting to recapture prime and be
I could not parse the animation 
of swinging arm
to missing frame.

I did not understand the harbor’s quiet continuity
the mute opal moon that does nothing but imitate
a face in the lateness 
hemorrhaging time.

So crystal trees dripped away
in shadows lending deep relief
to statue
and to cornice
and to crime

cradling freak emotions
ascendant like aromas
made by the ocean 
once in a lifetime
maybe the only time
aromas of infinity
pointless to name
pointless to ignore.


Shifting truths have their moment
drift into the rock of others
until they break or melt 
and shape anew.

So riots caught and children starved and markets crashed
and went as planned
and choices lures
folds pollutions
solutions errors
assaulted me like the diamond
vortices of casino chandeliers
poised above my escalation.

Let me lift you into confusion.
Alone in an asphalt field
for elysian fiends
all brass ovary and power haircut
starving the time gray

tired of scandal redemption invective praise
retraction invention
lockdown evacuation
one haze in which my beautiful mirage revealed itself
I sat up stinkin thinkin

I could see a black tornado
serenade the sun
along a racetrack of the atlas

sat up stinkin thinkin
the smallness of the work
the paucity of sales
the splitting markets
and the competition gone insane
mean even words written in stone
end at river bottom upside down
or echoing on lips of my extuplets
across the multiverse.

And either way the ego takes it hard
as a flailing newborn flailing  
hopes it will be loved
right now
finds the mother abandoned
must recreate itself.

iii. we, eukaryotes

First warm winter day 
the air anything possible 
can be easily neutered
by rounds of cold-again nights.

Election times: flame-broiled agitprop
comes upon you like a resting hand
you desire to reciprocate your reach
as you desire the existent for its opposite
as a warm day in autumn
resembles a cold day in spring.

I knew that green desire in my white despair

sweating through wool
at stubborn stoplights
dreaming of empty jails
distant as the zillionth zillionaire
from the exponentially homeless

from somewhere I called home inside me
daring ambulance to change direction


learning what I already knew
of dead soldiers
reported in the evening indigo,
printing presses, their tragedies
engineering analysis paralysis
everaware and less trusting
of things made obvious
banal and raw as anything 
again again again

tired of curses cures
freedom forms devices
custom construct paradigm ceremony truth
spewing like a bad volcano

blood pus and villainy
down upon the human cash

the world a bore
til miniscule as it is
a variation in the pattern 
excited slightly 
as tremors shorten days
immeasurable joy

I came to see the dark angel of what I wanted
as a moral human to believe
was changing, always, 
to continue.

Tired of the haze in which my beautiful mirage
made warmth and wind seem March
and the dark September
every month appearing
on the white page of the grayest sky
I heard my words
echo on the lips of some extuplets
alone in an asphalt field
where elysian fiends waved  
this night 
and that night 
and so forth.

So the pale and savage April bay
and the calendar of sparkling May
got closer seeming
a year and a season away
two steps ahead of my echo 
dreaming of Spring.

O minotaurs, come search and destroy me.
I feel the afternoon protects me now

from everything and the exceptions.


Because the Mystery drops 
enough hints to lose  
interest in the depth
of its resistance to reveal itself
and knowing I’m not heavenly
I slowed the pace of my investigation
and drank 

Would February bring an answer maybe not
so late as pessimists desire.
But watch the optimists
hesitate these days--
eyes wide
as powerless eyes,
empty as the treasury
and colder than a stomach full of wine—
struggling to find exception to the scene
and life was a laugh,
inappropriate, nonetheless true.
You could see transitions smooth
the glide of heyday to afterapex
transition one day to the next
but then unto another
smoothly as the day it rains it shines it pours.

One haze in which that beautiful mirage revealed itself
I sat up stinkin thinkin
to favorite songs in snow-locked lots
where mesh fences rats’

timeless meditations

disgusting without doubt
as the future and the past they know
intimate as hidden treasure and the plague

how the magnitude of the infinite 
sorrow and ecstasy faced
inspires silence

until Hello Goodbye
become one's only words
polite company is chased
and life cleaves to dichotomies
you know belie complexities
there is no reason to untangle.

In the morning
Civilization's same sick aloha returns--

every curse every cure
exception and norm
a brand of tarantula porn
a cocktail of thrills
status quo as contro
versial advertising--

nude men, coke use,
snakes and ladies, milk on face,
roller coasters painted up like summer fruit,
the usual configurations--

sending endocrines
far reaches of the lobe
and thence to those perverse equations
where extreme facial injury
and film of birth
are identical texts:

Mutineers have no fear.
Captains take hearts.
Everyone is thrown overboard.
This was my mantra.
Not the one I meant to choose.

I was in too deep to think 
the way I thought before.

v. creation and waste

Bled dry gone crazy
desperately seeking critical mass consumption
unwavering in liege to faults
I would inherit or create,
a formation of formations 
seeking form
among the adaptations
psychic and chemical
too hard and too soft
and no one can fix you are this person

absorbed in the body of math
the stars and we extend,
our extravagant forms 
made for multiple ends
and beginnings
as other extravagant forms
like the old ones meant nothing
more than the new. 

Whose goddess can say
if they did if they didn't
if Earth doing as it does
obliterates before I speak
random samples of the undeserving
and deserving

all bled dry gone crazy
tired of reason falsehood slogan trick
meme scheme deliberation
softball truth excoriation
happy birthday wishes
my Allstate agent messages to me,

a voice of reason to forget
hyped hopes and memories
of falling snow
of hearts that burned
like mandalas beneath the breastbone
now desperated by the dailiness of days

waiting on July--
known in this cold like a planet
by penumbra and legend--
or August to arise and blooming leaves
let trees smolder blue nightmares
warm my heart
with hot pants on Tokyo girls
their steaming skin
beneath preening magnolias
leaves wilting/asphalt vapor
that have laid, are yet to lay
on the endless crosswalk
in a crushed bouquet
confusing as the bad boob job

from which you cannot look away.

vi. autospies and private armies

I've stopped evolving
found my formula and opted out.

Tomorrow’s clouds are up there now.
Hand in hand with fog 
I walk to be dispelled.
Someone said I’d pulled my last moon from the apple tree.
In the middle of things change takes me in another direction.
The profanity of the rapidity 
ensures my gatisfaction saranteed.

Anyone entirely entranced, watch out.
The heart cracks up 
along familiar faults:

Rules transform to patterns. Edicts to designs.
Laws more lenient than passing time 
forgive themselves
send October to November
to December nights
that bring me stinkin thinkin here
to fret with time, too much of it
for the taking of toast and tea
for hoping the chameleons 
blend into me.

So the search for ethical bacon continues
held out like an infallible promise
to supermarket babies
whining in the aisles
who think you break the laws
they think exist
must recreate themselves

Falling in love over the counter
car exhaust billowing 
through twilight and evergreen
the magic aligns
waiting for me to wind down.

I never wind down.

When sunlight melts the ice
I drink to its caprice
keep moving violently
stotting the predators to say

I am here and can’t be moved.

Whatever I possessed has left
streets filled with the ugly and the blessed.
All that I have seen continues
revolutions, noble or ignoble,
Time the psycho tells.

vii. a chimpanzee at dusk

With the competition more extreme
a lazy dude like me
has limited ticks 
to ponder the melodrama 
you would be god to understand.

I washed out
like the profile
of a cloud against the clouds

could feel the spinning globe
sucking in comets and gravities
the dying sun living lost
into eternal permafrost

had premonitions 
the inessential ape consults
before he slows the pace of his investigation
loses interest in the matrix of returns
come dark nights 
you wish you was hermaphrodite
a tree self-propagating

a single-cell in need of no one

that nature had a son to kill
enemies to inspire
secrets to enlighten
daughters to defile

that maybe there's a plot
an art 
an answer to the question
our newscasters beleaguer us by
with maudlin reverence:
Why god why?

The truth is harder.
No poem’s long enough to tell of it all.
No poem’s brevity suggests its void.
One poem needs a fourth, a fifth, a sixth, 

a silence to the seventh power, still
for all these words

I have not said
what is behind me.

I do not know
what is behind me.
I do not know what is ahead.
I do not know right now.

I cannot parse the animation of my arms 
to find the missing frame.

I do not understand the harbor’s quiet continuity.

But what's behind me needs to push
and when it does
I’ll break
no questions asked.

So what to say but oh, what fun
in this odd body 
to see the moon in morning
the Christmas lights around me
like the cordial gel 
a cherry bleeds 
inside its bell
not knowing how my life will trend today
at whim of chief executive obfuscator
Wall Street banker
poetry teacher 
presidential contender

snakecharming constant brinksmanship
at risk of Fuck on global scales
every day the amusement park
we all go along for the gamble.

At risk of you. At risk of me.

If there is meaning in my morass 
you will feel me how
the sun’s a little pretty 
and tomorrow is convincing
but both are very limited.

One haze in which my beautiful mirage
revealed itself mirage
and speeding quickly toward baboon
all frontiers of my identity exhausted
by tied-to-the-shit
passions too powerful
to sink in the sand
not knowing
I would only boast to know
if I’d said anything at all
about what was past
what was in store
as January days
begot January days

and as I landed in a day
faintly reminiscent
of the day before.