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Wednesday, October 26, 2011

Lines from Club Charles

xvii. let’s rock

As the mood turns ugly--
and it will turn ugly
whatever your empire--

tequila with gatorade
and sardines and walnuts
will nourish the nights

fuzzing around by the excommuniques
trying not to get devoured

one hour closer
to the virtual burqa
of willful stupidity
self-selected inequality
and actions chimpanzee.

Fate opens weird

wild doors on us, man. Days
so heavily encrypted

to read along the patterns
makes a mockery of nature
increasingly itself, a word
precious like time 
when it's running out

vicious like love
when too much exists
all at once
in one man.

Precious vicious always the same
I am myself again

and the language has butterflied
to museum conversation
auditorium discussion
foyer rumor
airwave hearsay

politician in the morning.

The mood turns ugly.
Simplicity is rich.
Lightning is at play.

Welcome to the polygraph you cannot pass.
Every word you speak is true.

Wednesday, October 12, 2011

Lines from Club Charles

xvi.         the big pass

Stardown, metadata cries
microtime, our destiny.

Taste the derision:
the possible is not impossible,
only difficult
beyond our means--

presidential in their limitation,
confined to sets of unwinning options
anyone can see.

The triptych of is was WILL BE 
creation endless 
in its provocations
as its modes of exit:

sexual obliteration, orgasm by fire,
too many people to love
burning through time
like invasive species chewing mud
left by appetites
defaulting Earth to hollow rind
beneath the doveburst of moon concerned
by all those parasites.

Liberated, I would close my eyes and drive,
the wind and white lights evolving me home
to flowers and sex in the median strand

roadkill twitching in the margins
of the mind--eternal burning, 
not in hell, but in myself--
making fire of my inner cities.

And to burn is beautiful. Just watch the flames.
Observe the drama. Hold tight the hands. 
Feel deep the air

heavy as a hurricane, smelling of fish 
and chemicals and mysterious plumes
so sweet somehow as my street
when blooming rose
and honeysuckle meet 
among the diesel fumes.

One deep look into the purple clouds--
the August anycolored flesh of sky--
it is the blush that sails me
down the long long road
toward the whirlpool I could die
to save myself from the inferno
of what's true.

Stardown. Metadata. Microtime. Our destiny.

One long bend with a beautiful view.

What waylays you?

Lines from Club Charles

xv. nude on the ledge

62 trillion in the red
the sun’s angel face
a passing fad
I saw words in the wrong
places, curves in the stitching,
L-O-V in the Braille
of old adobe,
snakes in the talons
crossing the freeway
some kind of hieroglyph
on which I was stuck

sunbathing nude on San Francisco
TAXI in the wind
as mirrors caught my beast
in every dimension.
Liberty’s invisibility today.

Liberty is a tan ass,
no word from Washington or NYC.

Because I was
and the other side of the story
always made me less brazen
I listened to my enemies converse
and saw the limits of the universe

helpless as a baby
frisked by security
in permanent emergency
and decided to impose my will what may.

Because I was
middleamerica as a crying cheerleader,
no rocketfire ministry argument stalemate
no logistics or TV timeout
would pause the march

toward quiet days we wanted loud
and louder.
Consumer piano, play over me.
One option only
confronts my day:
children laughing English, Spanglish, Japanese, Hello
canceling to traffic moving
toward 61 trillion in the red below.