When I bend back to gaze at the satellite convulsions, I am an aqueduct for twilit rain. Quite literally I stand in the littoral zone: a lens--no an aqueous humor, my feet on the land below the high-water mark, my hand a glazed waver: hello light-purple lights, hello red spots, you've beaten the stars out tonight but you're struggling with the atmosphere, ain't ye? Over centuries the river became not a river: Lethe's end crept together--self-scavenging sea snake--& the middle filled with water--morphology dubbed it a lake & now the moon swims in it & the moon orbits it & the moon tidally tugs on it. The moon is a satellite in a fit of paroxysm. One minute past, I emptied an aluminum can of dull opiate to the drains to wash down my antipsychotics & then Lethe-wards slunk I. There must be this wire shaking loose in my mind, an unattended firehouse, a spasmodic filament attempting to cool the baby planet but lacerating precious gray matter. Thought leaves no vacancy for memory-- I forget & forget the rules, the thirst an auger, rain only whetting it, I bend & lap some lake up, tongue it, suck the silty mammary right where a light from the firmament meets it. I keep forgetting the rules, a Ptolemaniac with stars & suns circling me; I keep missing my cues, can't arrange the particles moments are made of-- and it's all good!--because when I bend seriously back & peep at the satellite convulsions I am a sluiceway for night rain. If I love at least I love aptly, terminally, like a man who loves his dinner until he's done with it, then settles to the couch to easy pixilated dreams (bounced off, yes, satellites, & beamed into a pale dish). And still, even unfettered by history or hope, the world does not seem shocking--simply something to fly a canvas balloon around, to dig a hole in. To climb into. To allow to fill with water, perhaps it is raining, perhaps you dig below the watertable; it gushes through the dirt; your bath is drawn & in it are drawn (sputniks & stars) maps & charts with which to constellate your body. Connect the dots. A little ladle with four handles--a tiny light strobes in the cup, in hot convulsions of distance, bleats of temporal ignorance, synapse of morse but no code, blood but no pulse, the stream but no mouth or source.
The tug on my arm but soon spread Perhaps now they could prove me there. I've been watching the sky closely & for some time, My hands in it, making crude, beautiful doves. Sometimes a sprinkler spits An arc of silver water over me, Hissing, bisecting. Half of a thing As much of a thing as ever can be. If they have to water it, it's not a real field. It's a yard, connected to a white building. Once, I was inside a building. Tooth, your shadow the color of the hour. * There was a smell of some spice, I don't know what it was called. I wanted to take a bath, change my gravity; Feel my skin loose & leave a ring. The man said they only had shower stalls. Those were the days everyone lived In fear of a fierce spouse, Paddling through the steam, Something in her hand: Hair-dryer, toaster, leaf-blower, Plugged-in & zinging. And you there, stewing in your own Sauce, whistling an oldie. * Deaf by dawn & if dawn comes Day may break--bellowing Below thing, be low, sing, Slinging blows, blowing slang Songs, bowing. Bring out the big Amp, vinyl torn, plywood exposed, I think the tubes are ready, sir, The dew I flicked on them leapt & left * Steelsleet, the weather from the recycle tower Less yellow as it lowers, a film of its tinting The buildings, tinning the yards with first light. I've seen the hours of train from above on the bridge, Each car brimmed with rusty blades, broken bayonets, Naked bent frames of things. . . .I can't tell. . . . Can you smell the crimson? And the cars behind me, Metal mixed at the proper ratio, careen dying to be there, Gasoline hemorrhaging, pistons punching themselves out. The barge gravid with metal took its miles to pass as I stood On the bank not saluting, thinking now, now what am I going to do. The first blast of the opening ore-oven decays all decay. The scraps shine. The smelting starts seamless, top down, bottom up. Hollowing. Hello, thing. Hell, lathing. Howlingly singing holes. * So what are you going to be? --A ghost. I stole a white sheet from a line. Leaves were stuck to it, I'll Punch some holes in it, I'll Jump from the balconies Of bleached buildings