|Pink Angels - Willem de Kooning, 1945.|
I like to cry at hypothetical situations
and freeze up on abject life - object life,
the final commodity, a kind of veil
over the eternal flames.
I wanted to give you a father full of day
but my dusky memories keep me
searching for a glowing grail
in the cavernous darkness of our ancestors.
Other than another man
I'm no one else but this.
Other than this other hand
I've only this one fist.
Other than this sleeping day
I wake unto another.
Other than her here now her
there's another her above her.
Other than confusing fruits
we're joyless as machines.
Other than these dusty boots
we wear our trustless leans.
Other than escapist pudding
let's eat forever gone pie.
Other than our honorable death
we've other deaths to die.
Other than falling falling
and refusing the scale of the rise.
Other than keeps wasting me
while the other me never dies.
Your Farther Eyes
Your farther eyes of tomorrow
wake triple in waking fully once.
Anonymity in the highest
sings down faith,
anonymity in the lowest
sings down one death and
readies the billions.
I see you already falling in love with your torturers
and the long loneliness in their manliest stare.
Like Foucault in a tutu
bleeding from his cosmic ass
and dying taut as human passion, as a rock,
shut and shut upon itself - aching in 50 days of sun.
You're not in hate with life
just drawn to the sweaty-lipped exasperation
of unpacking your pain
until there's none left.
No memory save shallow flames' symmetry unburdened and unfolded sailing through smalls installed as holy cows handshaking glasses and calculators earthquaking pouring over tepid time in measured rhyme and false sublime.
When stands one stands others and still others further frustrations in flour casing lacing domes into carpooled cathedrals capsizing.
Brown sugar knows where the sap of Jazz goes when on eagle wings of condensed singing and bells of daily din ring just for ringing.
I hope offense is like defense like cleaning more like chewing than really seeing more like believing than taking or like faking for awakening.
Slow slow now manufactured from fast still bleating charms for darkness to enflesh needing immense clowns to move kings from altars drowning at funerals appointmented in offices ornamented with orifices shining in emptiness and for emptiness - like stars pretending to dance even after dying.
Halting Thought Doodles
It's a live neon wire shaving as a man plastered on the morning glass
and alas, I guess, alas.
But our numbers are a matter of little courtesy,
dangling between death,
and the bright plastic boot ain't gonna lick the bullshit off itself.
gotta gotta Christ and hoax other-self saucers
gotta weep enough to wipe out weeping and sway,
tough as braille,
for the ubiquitous fingers to read forward
Gotta get to have the you to give away
to the you you've suffered the others,
sisters and brothers,
And against that aghast glass the camera glare of our next face
devours the mystical meat of vapor-selves
as bonafide as a Spring day is wide.
Sharp breaths and mantras of forgiveness,
Spoken from nowhen and everyone.
gotta gotta pay price
gotta pay price = loving self through item,
to demise within item/not mattering
like you've meant to matter,
faceless in orgy heat, mere matter.
Gotta talk-sing and walk-run
fall for to become.
Gotta stay from insane
draping this humble
miracle over hope
found between void and void
between animal and God-dead
between the universe considering being the universe
all the time.