On bare arms in tree shade a warm wind, oh my how bagels must appreciate honey. Enjoyment and not Abstinence is the Food of Intellect and I, I have a sandwich. How, to eat it, buttocks and back find the spot of satisfaction against roots and bark and I have said buttocks before I know oh damn it you.
I mean hello. I mean how pdfs are faster now than phone calls, think what Frank would think, between as I am sandwiches and back to work. Suppose I want to say the plane seeds have curdled the air, that every right corner of the car park has become, yes, flocculent - I am weak and they are so very fuzzy - or that domestic whirlwinds whip the sift to cotton buds. Suppose gyres. Jalapeños, incidentally, on turkey salad. I mean are you well? I have extra pickles
and I know so little these seeds could well be pollen or the new leaves shedding down. My heart is cobweb understandings upon a Gauze of Plane. That supposed, om nom nom, it's in your hands as fast as signing in to do with as you will. You have to catch them slowly, in still air even, or waft the fuzz from your grasp.
Turn the windows on
Fill the clawfoot with too much hot water.
Unscrew the lightbulbs they say will kill us.
Drive to a suburban stripmall to feast on food from another continent beneath office towers made of mirrored sunglasses.
Open the refrigerator and empty its contents into the stove.
Slice eye-slits into a quince and hang her head up to dry.
Wallpaper the bedroom with the funny pages.
Roll locks of your hair into pink plastic curlers and learn to swing a rolling pin.
Invite the poorly dressed representatives of boring religions into the Lion's Den for a game of darts.
Blow out your speakers playing various versions of "Whiskey in the Jar."
Buy a condemned movie theatre in Benton Harbor with your credit card.
Rename your pets after your neighbors then call them in for dinner from the porch.
Practice pleasure over abstinence.
Replace all your curtains with tinfoil.
Send beans, send soup, send steamed sponge pudding.
Because of the butterfly, my fingertips are bloating in a bad girl's bath,
a medlar - will a medlar do? - leathering its face despite the steam.
My walls are funny, windows foiled, as far as I can I obey. With honey in the bath
I am boy soup, am building my cell in the skin of a lion.
All the clawed feet are forepaws, claws dug into lino. Come forth sweetly out of the strong,
but not to go forth again; I am learning instead all the words for water, all the words for hot.
My pleasures are here - dictionaries, letter paper, reverent thoughts of you. Chicken noodle.
Food runs low. Desires elsewhere, whence sadness; desire at all, hence sadness.
Down the Brighton line as if driven, in October. A monarch.
But safe in the silence and the almost dark, tears in the tinfoil, dry linguini of light.
The lion feet strain against each other, crazing enamel beneath me.
But you knew the drivers were recruiting, sent warnings, therefore I am soup here,
fearing the microwaves, mistress, the mind control rays. Minestrone, manna,
spoon me? And the angels shut their mouths.
The devil will open his mouth and invite you in.
Carry a chicken bone, or a lion's paw. Prepare a pot of hot soup.
Feed him and you're off the hook, but if he's hungry, things begin
to happen. Be cool. Freeze your face into a mask.
No matter where you go there are people of power.
There were a string of kings in Chicago and I knew a few of them.
There was a group of us and I wasn't a part of it.
I left. I met the President of the Middle of the Road.
He wore a t-shirt advertising rotten food and lousy coffee.
Then the bird of my mind descended.
The bird of my mind returned to find
its nest was a mess. I ingested my ancestors.
144,000 delusional godheads marched through my radiant inner city.
Now I serve the elders with both hands and I let the fruit ferment on the branch.
They will leave with less grace than they landed, these waxwings toping on red upholstery of pyracanthus. They skitter and offer the fermenting berries, skitter and return to accept. I left, I returned to these, the largest flock to land in years, in burglar masks on roadside shrubs. They wear these dabs of wingtip wax, their outsize livers, as if, if I were anything before, was these. Three ways to leave, says the crossroads where the berries turn; all ways are ways to leave, say waxwings, staggering, goodbye.
As if I were anything before
Not all rocks
…..are alive. Or
……….so I’ve read.
Someone I love
…..is struggling, her thoughts
……….caught in a net.
Her face is full of grace,
…..her body evergreen,
……….her heart sharp
as the Canadian Shield.
…..I’m in Sudbury.
The pine trees looked lovely
…..as I drove
……….the treacherous roads.
…..for this. I sit
……….by a fake fireplace
that frames a true flame.
…..I have been crossed
……….by two crows today.
This tapestry depicts
…..the largest good-bye recorded
……….in the new century.
I have committed harm.
…..I am no longer