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I took my sky hammer &
pounded out a few choice
clouds, cirrus and I don’t know, nimbus
as in a god on earth
moving in space as a great auroral mist
a god who beholds the sparrows
washing in the dusty gravel
of frankford avenue
giving me cause to rant or
giving me means to roll
ride with me in the shadowy afterworld
beyond the spider of a doubt
along a sidewalk littered w/ leaves
don’t be plain, said the cloud, find
the ornament that please you best
or elsewise, sugared in stars
go on and rail in a useless manner
against the inevitable dawntime
people of the dawn
come up drumming
and beat on a pillow even
if a drum is not available
happy fortune, fortune has come round for you again
in this pocket world of a minor horned god
I balanced my lunch
in the arms of my ancestors
thomcord grapes and weeping cherries
they were my arms
lackadasic in the sky-sky-sky
holding their sky hammer
as if it were the baby buddha
and I thought, if there was a world beyond...
I could become one of those assholes
who gets their sugar from fruit
and regard the one who points out my faults
as a revealer of treasures
and regard the one who points out my faults
as a revealer of treasures
for T. Peterson so what if the magistrate calls you dude for all the petrogaff in helsinki what is the idles, the ides to you the hottest month on record if s/o is making a mockery & yew liable to get thwarted one needs a quiet room who hands out thir fucking pronoun paradigm at parties??!! if s/o is mocking let thir hart be tender harted. if one can be not-deformed.
for memorial at Zinc Bar, 23 June 2007, NYC I am your sugarplum fairy commodore in chief. —kari edwards conturbabimus illa. (Vivamus, mea Lesbia, atque amemus [let us live, my Lesbia, and let us love]) —Catullus V.II damesirs of fishairs princes reginae I don't need this botheration guilded toe in a gendered pension embedded narcissism skirts can or could not be worn w/ intentional disgrace getting oh-aff I sleep where I sit gog and magog ope myopia sweetness and delight do it for sidney, as starlover did rue on star, thir mistress cloying the lack, with thir poesis toying twill never hurt regina prince alack, areft locks beset candle agrove a buck in a corridor as like with likeness grace the tongue and sweets with sweets cloy them among conturbabimus illa let us confound them beasts implored and character impaled agathas breast in a 14th century pincer anon 7 heads w/ 7 comings on horns on their horns wings at their feet and at their wings well you have three seconds to live bespeckled apprentice freckled daylily a penny uneasily pleaded myrtle iron bootblackening at the speed we levatate con there is no missus I am among limbed elms colluding with doves nor tide nor tail angels w/ svelte angles the rub and tug goils languid as jersey too early for supper etc was their pimp and whatever their sucker shitslinger master cleanser w/ corporate coffee and torture pâté my present page in l-l-livery old glut of a beast's spleen the glory over lordling socked ajaw nassau ablog by fairly a sweepmate a swoopster bedevilled in gullet swashbuckld by proxy homosexuality eh? red river andaloos funny albeit friday all the dork-rock gender suggests we levitate avec held captive patrón, bothermonger ah myrtle why sie is taken my mind impertinent parasol glossy wit promise of salt caint leave thir cellphone alone ipode eterna satellite viscera muscadetted papillon (that one) strident 17 stallions with horns on their heads and horns coming out of the horns a papillon that one a buck in a corridor conturbabimus illa let us confound them all ridded of giggling anthropomorphia aghast DL in the bowries the tee hee ambigenuity of amputee-wannabees googling tee hee silly faggot dicks are for chicks dicks are for chicks wicked hee to bury my heart at my heart was in my knee
socalled swan of avon
n/t but a beaurocrat
buggering the buttercups
goy from the waist up
now soldiers're the ones making offers
and fucking caravaggio posters
maybe the artist had bothered about melancholia
suddenly xe finds xemself walking down
some dark corridor
california was truly the promised land
for a minute there
video marlboro
to show us
shoppingcart in dingy water
and then turn melancholical
sign reads no squatting
switchd on the cathode ray
at yr coronation
the bomb droppd w/ regular monotony
leaving us wanting
a to zed
dampened a grid
satyrical deliria
pan's ballet
in a black tutu
who have the inclination
but even whose necromancer—
firelit but dried—
—commandeering meadows—
protests were pathetic
The slate black sky. The middle step
of the back porch. And long ago
my mother’s necklace, the beads
rolling north and south. Broken
the rose stem, water into drops, glass
knobs on the bedroom door. Last summer’s
pot of parsley and mint, white roots
shooting like streamers through the cracks.
Years ago the cat’s tail, the bird bath,
the car hood’s rusted latch. Broken
little finger on my right hand at birth—
I was pulled out too fast. What hasn’t
been rent, divided, split? Broken
the days into nights, the night sky
into stars, the stars into patterns
I make up as I trace them
with a broken-off blade
of grass. Possible, unthinkable,
the cricket’s tiny back as I lie
on the lawn in the dark, my heart
a blue cup fallen from someone’s hands.
Is it possible to know where a word ends and my use of it begins? Or to locate the ledge of your promises to lean my head on? Even if I built a boundary out of five pounds of definition it could not be called the shock of a wall. Nor the pain the follows. Dusk cast the houses in shadow, flattening their projections. Blurred edges, like memory or soul, an event you turn away from. Yet I also believe that a sharp picture is not always preferable. Even when people come in pairs, their private odds should be made the most of. You went in search of more restful altitudes, of ideally clear language. But the bridge that spans the mind-body gap enjoys gazing downstream. All this time I was holding my umbrella open.
As long as I wanted to be a man I considered thought as a keen blade cutting through the uncertain brambles in my path. Later, I let it rust under the stairs. The image was useless, given the nature of my quest. Each day, I draw the distance to cover out of an anxiety as deep as the roots of language. I keep my eye on the compass while engaging the whole width of the field, and whereas, to others, I may look like a blur of speed from one point in time to another, I know I am not advancing an inch and will never arrive. Even if I could arrive the mirror would only show the other mirrors I have set up at every stop to catch the spirit of passage.
It rained so much that I began to confuse puddles with the life of the mind. Perhaps what I had taken for reflection was only soaking up the world, a cross of sponge and good will through the center of the eye. But to describe the inner world, you know, by definition, even the patient definitions of psychology, is impossible. Hard to know if it can be lived. Revoked edge of water and dry land. A falling fear. The sudden color of a word. But it’s the sky, pale gray, abundantly thrown back from far enough behind the eye, as you imagine an image, seeing earth in every direction.
A lament for Don (1958-2011)
Gaze gaze beyond the vermilion door
Leaf leaf tremble fall
Stare blankly at the the road's interminable end
Reduplications cold cold mountains
Long long valleys broad broad waters
Tears are exhausted now shed blood
Deep deep the baleful courtyards who knows how deep
Folds on folds of curtains
Gates trap infinite twilight
Walk walk through waning meadows
Steep steep toward ten-thousand Buddhas
Knuckles blue on the balustrade
In the land of missing pronouns
Sun is a continuous performance
And we my lover are nothing