I am patient. That is my mineral fact. I have long term storage in double helixes my two long polymers of nucleotides my backbone made of sugars and phosphate groups joined by ester bonds. I see imagist pears dissolving down golden arms I hear needle-less the sleep aid cd's real violins, then float blue-black at the eventide, injure of the taut to and fro, cut-back asphalt road, a path of greening twigs nourishing nothing personal. Root stocks of the best grapes, balm for the honeybee's bite, lyme's flea— money chimes in the community bowl, with patience I can sit on this bench and wait for the ironworks of a previous century to reverse themselves, or I can lie in the grass, vision the airplane's scatter-lit hallway, the descent only a little shaky like the trouble between art and life rolling you out into an unpainted landscape, the unbelted intoxication of travel unstable as a chemical's twisted briar medicine or drug licit or illicit or afterimage time to move along it's pathos time dodge a supreme fear pathos— Patience was crowding anxiety Patience's tired tongue was breaking a bone, while the twin and drone to be patient with hovered over our uncharted, rimless wants, rictus a slit vowel— La vida, a mess of dominoes face down. I am a pilot light desiring more recognition, I suck grass to the dead inside. The sleep aid cd & Hippocratic oath mixed up good in the cocktail of my head spoken into like commerce's cavity, cavity or skylight opening to the early spring blossoms in the airless baggage claim SANCHEZ in stencil font stitched to my desert fatigues holding luggage looking for someone to pick me up I can be both life-charged and dead in consecutive units, exited to like turnpike rest stop's promisingly lit pagoda, a respite for the humans stopping and returning, the humans predicating, a human is someone who has wandered in from the desert. I am patience in a substance clothed. truly a creepy troll truly a creepy troll a human is the one continuing to close Christ's eyes on the great crucifixes wagering will there now be some inevitable progress. In a tone pour, the erotics of the electronics swelling the house and trailing to the sidewalk, skip to sound a harrowing to go, a darned patch A soft fontanel a warm harm a human does nothing unusual, forgetting the euphoria of human potential is human potential wanting more tools to form the mind. Rest, stop, a human is go stopping and returning, a practice a human is someone to pick you up a human is someone to hone in a human's long-held desire to vanish in a crowd or x-ed out void of others, in mass human's estranging light.
It Was the Beginning of Joy and the End of Pain
The sewing machine had a sort of genius, high, oily and red over that little hellion’s pants. Joy and Pain crossing legs, then coloring in the poverty— Are we a blue, blue whine in the restive trees? Are we under the imprecision? The beginning endless, ending like chasing deer out of the yard, sphere unto sphere it takes a loyal Enthusiast to be Death’s mother. Stag on the meadow, mare in the river, unwinding green river wide rock for the resting. The man and the woman liked to go there, sprawled across the warm hood of the car, a question under sky, a curve where the trees rustled. A patch of brown hair on the white clapboard where the deer tried to run off scraping its side, harsh light in the paint can, weightless the screen door until you heard it click shut. She placed the shell and the action figure beside one another. Who is king, my queen, as many tongues as there are swords. Gone to field, weeds sway, some places are still semi-barbarous you can make a fire under the bridge and smoke. A headless man knows how you saw what the saw sawed, and there is usually enough poetry to pass out, the day is ongoing, you can get more material there a rough sleeping writ large. I loved playing that hand harp, large face coming to ask Who are you, Where is your precipice? The pattern crying, the pins too many colors, surround, surround. The pattern crying you be the master, I’ll be the life, have I been in this T-shirt all day, did I sleep in it, first did I see it this morning. Was that you bound in sun on the step, living the life of the seasons, and loving, I am recalling nothing of the unloving of ourselves, did you not foreshorten into pattern one thing from its happening, where you are slowly dying in a city, I am born in a town. Middling in a hive nothing is daring to move anymore. Sticking our feet into a template of lakes, it is endless, endless and endless a schizy feeling walking back into your world