under weight of words

Like vagina, pure ripe pleasure of pressure (or is it

release?) wrapped all round him while in his mind, You

vicious cunt! Tight upbinding swirl of climax, waves on

rock, shell impacting shell mid-flight, a baseball bat up

back =a da head, Great time to snap her neck. Words

smacking of words. Words sodomizing words. The

excavation of witness. Another ontological fix. Words

with little penises pissing in your ear, the one you listen

with, the one you=ve forgotten, slipping a stiffy to your

memory gland, barking up your fat closet, again. Ripe

cunt, floppy-eared, red nose of clitoris: The Rodeo of

Sex! total slippage of reference. Another night agape in

her presence, drifting mid rose-lit testament, words spill-

ing out of words, someday going to be gone long since.

* * *

under sentence

Life=s the penalty, I see. The world is linear because we

read. We have forgotten our hosts. Tied up at the boss=s

all night. It=s a miserable coat. I almost couldn=t stop

them. A lengthy story. Voces contumaces. Like losing

your own address after you=ve forgotten you owned

property. Or reading by angel light. Door stuck on jam,

again. The production of each stroke a given, of myriad

processes and interwoven universals. Phan chou. Each

the only product. Set down in the garden, we forgot

to thank those who took our clothes. A font aloft. We

thank them now. Cataleptic. Do you think they=d mind

if we fuck? This valley might be their living room. It=s

a bit big for a garden, wha= da ya think? Around

me, everyone turns into assholes. She fries my wine!

* * *

suspension of gravity

compare those for whom measure is scale based on the

relative Aweight,@ beauty to power, in Athens, compare

Sparta, or form to love in Tyre, freedom of necessity a

stone through whose mind ancient cities wandered, men

within their mortal frame, just what is distance in the

frictionless universe of big questions not even planets to

cast off hurl ourselves around and into deep space all the

philosophers are dead, we dance on their widdle graves,

time a floating island or cloud, redemption of weeds, it=s

April, fog rests on lawn, as loss, hollow mocking burst

from corpse, I mean with the urgency of a bird or cat=s

calculations: striking distance over observable speed of

prey, also a month when all earth=s decks overflow with

flowers and words ride on the slightest draughts of air.

* * *

all gods are superfluous

as the divine is, always, a clown, rotting egg, Man, what

=ja gotta come in here for, anyway?, door still agape, his

whine scaling a ladder of mirrors (this is a barber shop

then?, maybe you=ve been telling yourself the truth the

whole time, did you ever think of that? (there are several

features of this landscape that are interesting, shimmer

of consciousness thinking it can measure the universe

with a slab of meat, who cares if anyone reads, he was a

child of his own hand, I am become an odium, take out

trash in the predawn, words no longer in existence, I put

my carrot on backwards, reference itself gone the way of

Gorky=s painting crate, in spring we=re boiling over with

it, whatever it is, scalding tar=s black flare, burning flange

of pain, at once constant and immediate, gives us an edge.

* * *

riddle of the abyss

age is telling a long joke, with some apparent joy, early

at a party, not all the guests have yet arrived, a first

drink freshly in your hand, he=s an interesting stranger in

no hurry, pausing for laughs, comments, not prolonging

the punchline but forgiving it its necessities, standing and

laughing and listening, slowly he reaches the part about

deepest Pacific blue and the sound of sails at sunset, how

their color changes in the changing light, shades of white

in encroaching darkness, pewter, you are still young, any-

thing can happen, yet is a word you can still use as a soft

wedge, argumentation may again be filled with joy, now

for witness of sheer mind=s leaping, but his words have

slowed, slightly, and his head almost turns, then with a

light shift in his eye, oh yes, the abyss, I almost forgot

* * *

one crushing bloom

after another, life the guest who never leaves, and yet the

bird has flown, as well it should, but I forgot to watch it

like I>d promised, I forgot to feel it surround me like I

said I would, youth an aviary of such promises, none too

grand, no rat-tailed cormorants or tourniquet angels, for

instance, but why does it always have to take a hot, greasy

dump on all I thought best? he has a house full of crippled

pets, animals being unlucky in his family, dawn the first

accident we keep making each morning, lawn covered

in green, color yet unseen, silhouette of canted highway,

trees, yet alive in its insistences, an odor like stepping

on a ripeness in your bare feet, immediate, odd, and lin-

gering, pain you can bathe in, soft florescence of wound

wound round the finger, wiggling like stabbed lunch

* * *

comma eel

what else is new in the blossoming of wounds, airy fire

at every portal, lightning of senses striking you forever

dumb, pain as the death of questions, and so on, sweet

sweat in her breath, and all her breathing like mountain

air, pines beneath her carcass, while someone=s stabbing

a cat to death outside the difference between hearing

and listening as anticipation blossoms into realization a

moment before conception (that ripe!, yes, and the red

hands, a common field to play on, some mornings dull as

a fish, what kind of existence does unrealized sensation

have? where does it reside? in a cottage with a thick-

ening wife? can she cook? her eyes fill with cataleptic

horrors, a cat screams with a human face, we look deep

into what remains, as into water, but can find no trace.

* * *

maybe the universe is still ringing

and we=re the only ones to hear it, hard not to make

sense, jumbled claws of the moment, fat, blind stroke

of lightning, what we attend, attends us, what we are al-

ways after, listening follows what we hear, words float in

early summer=s air, inner ear, hammockesque, diseases

borne of sky, influenza of sense, hell pollinated by large

stinging insects (and we, the flowers!), bright glare of

coal as eyes burning in the black cosmos of that mind

we call God, its heart a circus of lusts topping it off every

moment, ripeness of malice their only fuel (the blood=s

for lubrication), maybe we are the ones who are ringing,

a first word off distant mountains echoes what I shouted

out in youth when first sensations rhymed, then pressed

themselves in all my mental flesh, motherfucker indeed!

* * *

The Sun, The Dervish in the Tree, 1944

by Gorky, says all I have to say, ever, on some subject I

haven=t thought of yet, dig?, what is the doubling of ones

but the closest twin to life there is, this is for Liz, some-

thing peers from beneath the tree, sun is dervish be-

cause it=s closing one eye and laughing while the other re-

defines the pacific, he=s making an in-the-dance adjust-

ment, tree and sky are sky and tree, for instance, how

could you ever leave?, everything else is in question, he=s

always saying something, saying himself, as the world

says resurrection, one, one, one, then another will surely

follow, but I=m not so certain as I was when I hadn=t

thought of it, one unto one, what then is death but an-

other?, it=s foolish to dismiss the idea of taking your own

life, after all (tree in mind of sun) no one else is using it.

* * *

heart of paradise lies empty

exhausted on the sheer grasses of a dawn still uncoiling

from the first morning, glistening shadow in time=s

flame, a wave, what follows from anything but endless

profusion, bird song car plane cacophony of trees and

dream, one, one, one, how could you leave?, cars on the

curve another CD book more words holes to fill more

afternoons, but sometimes something seems to fall into

place, too late, of what is there to speak, think of the tiny

foot, a click, counting off strikes in a Seth Thomas, its

flywheel wakens a breeze, soft drag against the sick for-

ward spilling motion of all things, and we are back be-

hind the pond, a day before us, this morning another sun

rises beneath the same window, new shadows to regard,

and I wonder why it is you ask me to define the natural.

* * *

on the contrary

Death is what makes sense of everything, wrapped in its

dream like the soul in a cheap suit, its every thought a

landscape only time could prove (or love), what beats in-

to your eyes but darkness of fetal sleep, seeps into your

nights, how it glistens, the deep shine on oblivion, or

stone blue sky Sunday afternoon late May behind the

pond, leaf shadow & sun playing across the page, half

shadows, & shadows within shadows & shades, ply over

ply of light, a shuffling of exposures, breeze ruffling trees

in succession, & leaves sway, a tractor in the distance, who

can say it=s not the world at my feet, too much like

thinking to be less than thought (which doesn=t mean it=s

thinking) so that when it comes it will come sure, clean,

& you will be made whole again, as all manner of thing.

* * *

it=d be funny if it weren=t true

That=s why the monks are laughing. A flat tire was the

least of it last week. Went to the dentist with two tooth

aches, left with two tooth aches and a financial plan. It=s

getting hard to get good weed. Japanese beetles in the

cypress, light green gone to rust, termites in my logs, and

I=m losing transmission fluid. Jack is leaving, Liz just

left, others I make sick. Tell me there isn=t a plan! Some-

thing to warm a monk=s belly before the furnace of black

night. Meanwhile, an Italian goddess of great antiquity

has come down off her ball and sits staring, outward, into

sun=s distances, fortune of the first born. All my troubles

falling into place, and heart in mind least would I find

no more comfort than the words, themselves, in telling

it. (I.e., it=s not compensatory; that=s not the question.)

 

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