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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?

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