you dream
one-thousand pounds
heavier than me—
a weaved, night sky
complete with brass buttons
and the bobby pin you forgot to take out
this

tessellation of Sunday letter
haunts me with your

lace and peach
as my fingers conduct

the bundle of flowers
to smoke

A memory squeezes my liver
my kidneys and stomach too.
Similar to that “guilty pleasure” I ate
before I got the flu.

This one lingers, spreads to bones
which is why I’m here.
Begging you to fix me up
or even better
disappear.

I dig into my pockets and find
lint
gum wrappers
the invisible switchblade
of mirror ride and wind’s roll—
the KABOOM!
of diluted catastrophe
or how your mother screams in her sleep

now I understand how seasons
faint from peppered emotion—
strong enough for teeth
to bite and rip the leather
or at least scratch patterns into
that old belt

smooth breeze down the throat
tastes as September dies down
at the alley cat’s feet—
dead prayer
and the leaves swoon to
twitching whiskers

the sun prowls around
its rocky master

and you
a shadow in its breath

your eyes closed
your hair blowing
like a brushfire
bleeding oolong

the brazen claps of
sunlight thunder
down upon your shoulders

a freckle appears

then another

then another

your sea of blank skin
now crushed
tiny islands
cooling you in
sun-drenched picture

you know i'm in trouble
everyone does

but i'm not going to stop now,
i weave you into my mind's tapestries

i make up stories about us, i choose
you to star as the lead

i miss you when i'm with you, the parts
you choose to hide
you remind me to be calm and
accept what i can't see

but i want you to be mine
in all capacities

I see a ****** of crows
parting the sky with
a ******* V

it hawks and blecks
down as if to say
good afternoon
to the child wheeling
across federal
on her
pink bicycle—

a travel
that rots and witches
the sweet, grey air
sailing into clouds
of pounding tide—

jewels

colorless
and divorced
drifting
across the
blue-domed
pearl of
missing you

starlight snaps your
cigarette awake. the imperfect
circles of earth’s motion orbit
around your breast. the moon
chimes
from your ears.
north and south run
the rivers of
smeared mascara,

you stop. listen to

the man
playing fiddle with
half-hearted
bar light.

i mentioned it before, lost the 2nd volume
of the critique of pure reason
for about a year...
resorted to claiming the the end of the cantos,
and i did, at one point i was subconscious
imitating Ezra, it wasn't on purpose,
the cantos just rubbed against me like
a perverted mongrel dog ******* my leg,
i swear to got that happened to me, once,
tried to kick the ****** off my leg,
but he wrapped his front paws around my leg
and started *******, i was a about 7 or 8,
so if you're talking abuse... i was abused
by a dog... but i laughed at his attempts to
get satisfied... anyway... this afternoon,
started rereading the critique..
first thing that hit me was how i haven't been
reading prose, of whatever nature...
poetry has no claustrophobia, prose is riddled
with it... the way you have to strain your eyes
and scrutinise... the way you sometimes
lose the plot not because you're not understanding
what's being said, but because everything is
so tightly packed that sometimes to skid off
the narrative road and end up on a different line...
but after Kant completes his fourth antinomy
**** turns into a fudge bog of dialectical stink...
this afternoon it ended up being a 50 page
marathon (which is pretty good in one sitting)...
and let me tell you, reading philosophy can be
like entering the army, there's this need
for patience as if it were obedience,
and with philosophy you get the chance to become
rigorous... read one philosophy book
from the godfathers, and i promise you, you will
finish Don Quixote, or James Joyce's Ulysses...
you will... for 50 pages after leaving the
thesis parallel antithesis section of the 2nd volume
Kant launched into the fundamentals of
space & time (abhorring) in terms of regression...
but i've noticed the game they're playing
those philosophers... they're purposively avoiding
a certain pronoun usage, the existential movement
went as far as to ditto the i... in orde that
psychologists could work on the ego in abstract form
mediating a non-existent person using
the universal applicability and the particular applicability
ref. point of someone being studied;
Kant is the precursor of how this one pronoun use has
to be avoided to write philosophy, imagine it as
a novel, written philosophy is pure narration
that attempts to expel the narrator, even though there
is narrator, and there are no characters in philosophical
prose because the philosopher is inflecting the lost
first-person into a multitude of how problems are
to be addressed in abstract... he speaks of the indivisible
presence: the ego mediating both thought
and the soul, with the former activated by thinking,
the latter by odd-behaviour... anyway...
key phrases of note from the 50 pages:
it's basically about regression, the contrast of
phrasing in versus, how mathematicians would
have encompass regression in the phrasing
progressus in infinitum while philosophers
(noun sharpeners) would rather state
progressus in indefinitum, yes, it is really
a case of pedantry, but a pedantry that arose when
words became more and more ambiguous
or were no longer specifically one-dimensional,
and like a woman's womb with triplets were
given several meanings, or elasticity, for no one's
benefit other than for politics, and our current
political movement: that one about childish pranks
and even more childish denials.
the distinction in this case rests upon a choice,
within the framework of in infinitum is that
you must continue writing a sequence
1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6, 7...  1034... 90754... to see infinity,
the elusive variant ad infinitum was missing
in Kant's argument, but i guess both are mediums worth
assembling as literally impossible to mind
considering in indefinitum... as in indefinitely...
infinity is definite, but the process by which you
define it is not necessarily worth defining...
you may choose to do so, but not necessarily.
yet he's applying this to regression, so it's about
the distance of cared for interpretation between
the interests of Darwinism                 the Big Bang Theory
        and major religious events...
or if you're American concern for the founding fathers'
genius in crating a constitution...
how far back will you go to make a modern standpoint
relevant to how you want to shape current affairs?
i mean, i can cite you quantum continuum
about how this principle is concerned with filling space,
i mean there's so much here, but you pay it
with a hefty price, yet even if you don't understand it,
such works train you to be a non-defeatist
when it comes to lighter works you probably like
reading... i know there's a necessary need to understand,
but strain yourself on a philosophy book
and the oeuvre of Balzac or Dickens awaits you
like a spring-time breeze in lightness...
and out of concern for your eyes...
the reason they packed it to feel stuffy and claustrophobic,
well back in the day printing books was expensive,
you had to write tightly, almost like the small-print
legal restrictions in whatever it is you're using...
poetry wasn't popular because it wasn't considered
economically viable... the digital age and
social media changed that (even though it's not
taken seriously), because it will be some time before
people realise that:
y                                      o                   ­                  u

             d                   o                         n
                                                               ­             't

                 n           e                             c        e           s
s                   a                 r        i              l                               y

h               a
                                             v                           e
t
                           o
                                                               ­                 w
                                              ­                                   r
                                                               ­                  i
                                                               ­                  t
                                                               ­                  e

like that to get emphasis across,
you're just lucky to be using a pixel medium...
and even so... we're not saving the Amazonian rainforest,
sure we've bankrupted paper, and this allows
us to really write poetry pixels, because no
capitalist would be crazy enough to invest in such
p

                          r
                             ­                i
                                                              
                                                                ­   n
              
                                                                ­                        t;
unless he was printing it on toilet paper.

A porcupine skin,
Stiff with bad tanning,
It must have ended somewhere.
Stuffed horned owl
Pompous
Yellow eyed;
Chuck-wills-widow on a biased twig
Sooted with dust.
Piles of old magazines,
Drawers of boy's letters
And the line of love
They must have ended somewhere.
Yesterday's Tribune is gone
Along with youth
And the canoe that went to pieces on the beach
The year of the big storm
When the hotel burned down
At Seney, Michigan.

By A Foreigner

I like Canadians.
They are so unlike Americans.
They go home at night.
Their cigarettes don't smell bad.
Their hats fit.
They really believe that they won the war.
They don't believe in Literature.
They think Art has been exaggerated.
But they are wonderful on ice skates.
A few of them are very rich.
But when they are rich they buy more horses
Than motor cars.
Chicago calls Toronto a puritan town.
But both boxing and horse-racing are illegal
In Chicago.
Nobody works on Sunday.
Nobody.
That doesn't make me mad.
There is only one Woodbine.
But were you ever at Blue Bonnets?
If you **** somebody with a motor car in Ontario
You are liable to go to jail.
So it isn't done.
There have been over 500 people killed by motor cars
In Chicago
So far this year.
It is hard to get rich in Canada.
But it is easy to make money.
There are too many tea rooms.
But, then, there are no cabarets.
If you tip a waiter a quarter
He says "Thank you."
Instead of calling the bouncer.
They let women stand up in the street cars.
Even if they are good-looking.
They are all in a hurry to get home to supper
And their radio sets.
They are a fine people.
I like them.