This, Your Confused Sentence, Poem

The simplicity of pond, watchwords, the going rate. Think of intelligent draining of economic constants in the gloom above the cold water. Federation selects this rood of land, with water for offertory and remembrance. Cornstalks saved for decoration, in the imagined gusto of that ended autumn, asseverate a position. Means of replying fizzle thru results, until daybed burns in the solitude of autumn light. After effects realize their broad distinction. People care for carnival, late blooming asters and crocus, and so much depends. Now the pond, nobly engraved in literary matters, produces a squeal. A few mallards have murdered a bench, have interrupted the speech of fences, have created peerages of paths. Wild strange makes a cold bay. Languages piece together but still a stream edge shifts for a picture and latter proof. No dose remains except a pungent arriviste lost for matter. This mighty day concerns many dull moments, and leaving everyone behind. Thus a Thoreau enscribes some rich matter, forest duff. And other proven numbers ply for adding. And the changes magnetize in harsh elements and willful puff. The endgame resists, then stutters then period. It's like we are words, but water too combines with breath. Earth too, fire too. Features of this funny business, this capacious colony of reaching for ideas, isolate in solvents and unsolvable. No philosophy but the days on end. Colourful something in the midst of elsewise, then a poem, legacy train, trailing wind by which we speak...

across the water, et cetera, climate of something, positioned, thrilled, imposed and functioning... after which statement, the business of bees... degrees...

hubbub

the right of tender yielding upends
a pinch of dim sum, while laws take tea with amiss

rattle wishes its throat a faithful return in parting,

tactical sin cruises the black mile
elbowing deserters into strumming holes,

behind a sullied moon, addicted to beam blare

Operative Thought and Derivatives





Kill the Dog

Stanley polyp Mulligan stood at the window ledge peering into the shaving mirror. He griped the palm of his hand across the pink scold of his face, a fine specimen of a face, and placed the stropped razor on the windowsill. He looked out the window and ran his fingers through the nettled of his hair. After which he paced, feet crossing, to the water facet and poured himself a glass of tepid tap-water. The cup, resin brown and spidery with cracks, the handle all but missing but for a hook and crock, slid from the gripe of his fingers and fell shattering to the mackintosh floorboards at his he feet. -‘What for the love of gods’ almighty, all this shattering and mottle’-- Mulligan turned facing the boot room door and sighed.–‘The dogs got worms’--said Murphy, his child’s head warm from sleep.–‘Seems, so it does, he’s always got them, worms’--said Mulligan shaved. Mulligan carefully shifted his weight, as he was prone to hallucinations, and added-‘we should put it out of its misery we should’-–‘You mean kill it’- said Murphy. –‘Cut it up into little pieces and feed it to the fish’- Mulligan said. –‘What fish’-Murphy said? –‘We have no fish to speak of, none that I know of- We can’t, surly we can’t kill it’-- -‘Why not’-said Mulligan-‘damn things always getting in the way and the gods almighty stench, enough to turn one off one’s supper’-- Murphy, struggling to free himself from the bed-linen, said-‘Leave it alone, he’s no one’s bother. No bother for you or I or no one’—(This is the other story, the one I have been meaning to tell you).

Walden's Graduated Plan

A constant element green as utility rose over the bobbing waters of Walden Pond. Unwilling ducks struck hard. The coarse of change, e tc, microcosm of shifty diseases. A whirled understanding stuck on the branches that could overhang the shoreline into the brisk shadows of something. Something itself proclaimed a new art, just slightly above the waters of Walden. Ineffable fragments sank suspiciously. Toasted ripostes trembled on the yard arm of the 1st pirate ship on Walden waters. Holy shit, that parvenu, clung to some practice of description, namely, that the red sun sank into the crystal clear water of brown pond. How brown it is, says your imagination. But you reply, the pond is sky blue. But the pond avers that blue is capricious and barely saintly, whereas brown keeps the earth whole, so what really should the waters be? A blue funk invades but brown is strong. Green names a day then disappears. The red sun, what a long shot! So we talk of swimming forever in the bloated regimen. Other swimmers had similar earth to enjoy. This Walden Pond imagines itself, and we stick to its facts. Facts such as: mallards with teeth, trees with intention, flickering tadpoles as the time of day. This Walden that inspires a nation (top percentile) to grow a wind of regard, and the apples will fall. Look: summer ended, winter approaches, and the trees may really walk away. Take your plan and enlarge it, the future has a kitten. This kitten swims forever, trailed by bears, pushed to limits, settled in sentence. The word that agreed to the sentence's plan rallied and spoke. It said the water was awesome, even now, like the score the sun takes, on certain autumn days...

The Jazz Symphonic Glass Ear


Landscape with Face

page 303-310


Go to where the pill of ingenious machinery humming it moot ministration above the factories’ noisy complaints is swallowed to heal the ills of an overgrown busy bodied society busting at the seam reaching out to space for new space in which to rear its youngs caught in the seduced nature of language its cling and clang clinking its counter-current kindly to the kill-dare come lately likely to the looking of a drossy fire stared stale impetuous in its silence protection of its vengefully consuming the taste of the air the machines never sleep completely accept in their break down is a window open on their noise and what have become an earring forgotten silence taking cautious spreading from machine to machine with its motion controlling the fluid flow forward floundering in the heat of moving parts grinding and gnarling its grotesque glom on to the galaxy of a placated dream where the crazed bones of long gone innocent’s distilled nocturnal compassion dwarfed by the flaming ruins of the last compassionate word losing its meticulous meaning in the embrace of the written flame’s revolt that tumble about the insolence guffawed violence of a retwisted verdict that have sentenced the drunken hour glass to telling the elegant time of a performing prophet’s memories prophet turned noisy poet of the circumcised laughter beautifully bounded seeking to bear the weight of birds their physical force drunk unexpectedly germinating poems full of the astonishing ancient articulated architecture of feathers the enormous message of the grave the importance supposition of the extremely primitive embodiment of evolution found in the tears of a exaggerated fertility of a non-conscious experience driving the recumbent bull beneath the hallucination of divine speech heard whispered from a dark corner in the stubborn heat in the nausea night where the pregnant hunger of black butcher throat slicing open the American ear raped by the heart of a dark absurd St. Louis wearing French gloves made of butterflies wings configured into a fleur-de-lis of an purple iris of raw flowers growing inalterable by knives of the wreckage of spider’s web hung on the in appeasement of the fraternal climates spent with the lunation of the bookkeeper’s insults caught in the hands of the prodigious healthy sea full of rocks run round aground in the rich hourless kiss of the wind where the jets of entanglement regrets the impossible season emitted by the sun of a quite storm raping its rapping across a field of used discarded children’s shoes affected with wild birds bathing in the pollen rain beneath the season of the moons caught in the good evil that sucking the noncommittal man waiting for the bounty of a heaven’s landscape of rude gestures where red wing black birds are attracting an attack of the red headed boy who bath in the green light of leaves his skin tinted and tight taut and tugged by the fingers that seeks a youthful meadow where grows white and brown booties bottom up for the good fuck of a coat of arms hung alone the wild walk corridors of a primogenital pink penises nailed along the walls I take the long walk through the gallery where the roof is full of red hair virginals weeping their vaginal juices as sweet rain painting their refrain like the jagged edge of skyscrapers at the genealogy of the astonished sex of birds and worms with their secret complicity hugged by the solemn hissing of the murderous five-branched tempestuous science of tornado’s torn-a-do Colorado too color-a-do down by the rail road tracks and the South Platte River where a cat’s lust forgotten by the summer gliding over the wild grasses and trash heaped and hovering over the caged guardian dog that care not to call upon Gods pecking at the sweat drops precious and decadent in the stormy criminal innocent smuggled into the quivering velocity of glass when the machines wakes the morning mountain in a riot of offence the piston powered God of maniacal metrical machismo machineries pumping out their vain wears cooing in the backwater naked with its funk of the law milking the clouds for the childlike juice of the Gods


Go my fair face son go my woman one go go go to where Rimbaud is writing nigger to his mother where he see nigger in the dark skin of poetry Rimbaud the boy wonder the doom soul the opium eater the alcoholic lover of Veriaine Rimbaud the slave handler the crier of nigger nigger nigger in the heat of the dark country where man first drew his beautiful breath and shed most of his body hair nigger long lives in the middle mind of the bold beholder that self same caller is clothed in the rank file scum of the hiding hooded mask of the Klanism robe under the light of a burning cross they preach the ugliness of a madness their hands are stained with bountiful blood their words are to dead to bite or cut their outdated redundant rhetoric of white supremacy of one white God and one white country but the stew is mixed we the people of the United State we the noise of the multitudes we the conscious of the multiracial multiethnic multicolor mindedness are mixing our bated blood in the baby birth born by the light of the moody moon where the ghost of old Gods full of lost glory seeks to renew themselves to strike again against the prison that man have put them in the Gods have repent around bout lent alone you among the few the saved the forgiven with your faith full of space fit to be tired with the archangels angels’ wings outstripped where the cherubim ride the subtle scent rejoicing to the tune of the heavenly bells that thrilled slake and take like a snake that holds the answer to all the God hidden question Gods can not be lead by the head or the dreams of a red covered clover bed Gods are playfellows of the heart their promises once spoken is then broken on the sodden earth with its wine and mirth its struggling grey the lost paradise of a way of life of false fair hair

Go jinn of the night and fight against the outrageous memories of summer speech caught in the throat of an old oak tree growing along the boulevard of dreams where an executioner of clouds hide the bones of skeletons piled sky high and float in the undertows of the rain which I drink like milk in the virgin nothingness of the assumption and implication of the child murderer of fireflies to wear their light as a ring on the finger yellow chemical light strung around their necks in the chimerical vision of their play prominent child like large eye-idols placed on the altars their huge globular eyes indicating the intriguing present of the Gods never calm in their work that embrace the irresistible force of weather the amateur armature Gods like vultures after the dead can not keep from waiting their turn in turn they are offering their blessing to whom ever may come to worship the salvation of anger the salvation of sex growing in a mirror the salvation of the wounded wind the salvation of a syllable’s event in torn open prayers when the dada day is left to consume itself toward the cherished tomorrow that refuse to rendezvous with the past sketched out on the tail end of the present with its scruples for passing as a half remembered sudden messenger with his spasmodic tenderness as a watchdog fetching the wisdom of storms the dim of him cool in the pool of a honor hour that is home to the lightening rod of a God who is not to proud to toil in the soil of human flesh a God bent on the spent sweat of man’s lament for his scars of lies that won the sacred prize of yellow sallows vows in the hollows of his heart that brush in its rush toward the to much cloy joy of a boy in love love from above love from below the wings of angels when the spring air there fill the eyes of the skies angels who thrust their strange erotic lush into the wind end of men’s minds angels ears that hears the shade when we are afraid to take them at their words angels grown to stones by man’s weariness angels glad to have had the night delight of our knowing angels are bound to adore thee the art of our heart where what is believed can deceive leave us in the dusk of dead luck buying its time with a suffocated supplicated sophicated rhyme of grot that got the not of the same flame that disappears in the sun undone tears that nought wrought and brought of water’s give and take of the sun’s understood mood a brother’s love from above a glass of mud the kin I call cuzz the vine of the grape’s wine that float in the dew’s throat I love my love the father’s blood the blue-green sea of glass the self-same guilt of the Gods that avail there where righteous gleaming strand of land jets into the glass sea when the ocean weep from her face of the starry heaven with its strength held at length from the violence of a begging prayers are still born to tell that the well if dry of pleasant sins that have all repent

NOT a CRASH at ALL

My days signal lamps and the
popping sound of sunset. Life kisses the extreme
versions of trees that we have hatched.
Life, yes, betters love by turning
green into orange. our day ends
with something. You may limp
to the moon of christening, and
clear the streams of trucking
sounds. That's called assertion, tho it may
make poetry blend. A poplar saps the
space between our eyelids just by
leaning on the wind. Doors
spring open for shade and creek and deltas
full of mud. Mud means much, as do the rain clouds
that forced heat from saturday.
We were both awake.
Now the song stumbles over
years gone by. We are used by the fragrance of
settlement yet we give every pause a
grace of negotiation. I love you
in the yard and bed and framework, making
much of our time as we do. Silence seems like
a chance to bring more into the sentence.
A poem learns from us. We change
with the time, just like electricity. The time isn't
ours, yearlings, it is us, filled
with signals like a light.