Mac Thom

Mac Thom 11h

Today was a day where walking
into the woods, over hardpack,
one foot went right through the path,
then the other, up to my knees.

Today was day in between
being stuck in the snow and the spring
I was ready for, seeds in my pocket,
a sunflower of sorts, for a chickadee;

and so it was, in a wink
you landed on my fingertip: uncertain,
bird, winter and I
vanished together.

Mac Thom 1d

P and not P

1        I sat there, reading you a story.

1.1     Well, reading a story to myself, maybe even in my head, not sure.

1.12    I used a small light clipped onto the binder. I bought a fresh triple 'A' battery in the little pharmacy on the ground floor, beside the broken escalator.

1.13     I brought my binoculars too.

1.131   The windows in your room faced west over a helicopter landing pad and the parking lots of another hospital, an ok view at night, and I could look into the rooms of that hospital and sometimes see a kid looking back at me, unseeing.

1.2      You were usually half-asleep when I got there, but still willing to talk about the flocks of crows that streamed by your window at dusk.

1.21     The setting sun carved them into the sky. By the time I got there all that was left was the windsock on the roof of the hospital, twisting in the indefinite sunset.

2       The world is coming out, isn't it?

2.01   As if from a broken centrifuge, it is going to fly out and splatter on these walls.

2.012  Whatever energy I have left to write at all arises from the centripetal force gathered those nights, their gravity and implacable stillness.

2.1       I sat with my thermos of mint tea, my feet were on the nurse's stool, the night before us.

2.2       Can something forever conceal itself from, yet express itself in, the world?

2.21      This question in the letter I was reading when it started.

3       Blood everywhere.

3.01   There is still a spot on my wool sock.

3.1     All over the floor in the bathroom.

3.2      And in the sink.

3.21     And when I looked up in the bathroom mirror I saw your eyes. Your eyes!

3.3       And the small vessels in your sclerae were bleeding.

4       Breathe.

4.1       And each item can be the case or not the case while everything else remains the same.

5       And you cannot.

6       Death a midwife.

Mac Thom 2d

Twelve Tips for Drones

Sky grabber,
Hide under thick trees;
Stay in places unlit by the sun, like shadows of buildings;
Maintain complete silence;
Use general confusion methods;
Spread pieces of reflective glass on the roof of your car or
Disembark and go in different directions.
(It is unable to get after everyone.)
Form fake gatherings using dolls and statues,
Place them outside fake ditches;
Burn tires for cover smoke;
Leave the microwave open;
Lift the ordinary water dynamo, carefully,
the one fitted with the 30-metre copper pole and
jam the waves and frequencies.
God willing, the operator should be a know-how.

Mac Thom 3d

Refugee Claims

all beauty
reveals itself to persistent analysis: wooden chests, bamboo boxes, wooden tea dispensers, wine boxes, although A asserts the priority of the object -- what is called the materialist aesthetic -- in contrast to the idealist anesthetic of B, which privileges the subject (over many objections), nevertheless it's C for containers: boxes, cartons, cases, sacks, bales, pallets, drums; rolling on the floor, difficult-to-handle, ventilated containers or essentially dry vans, but either passively or actively ventilated, either insulated, refrigerated and/or heated for perishable goods; stackable tank containers, for liquids or gases—although mine had folding legs under the frame that moved me between trucks without using a crane—like natural gas, coke or asphalt; gravel; gasoline; cereal grains or non-metallic mineral products; fuel oil, coal, crude petroleum, other foodstuffs; waste and scrap; pharmaceuticals, electronics, motorized vehicles and other machinery (while all this time some D, Meister of Königsberg-type, hand idly stuffed down their trousers, experiences art as a product of--you cannot imagine--the sensual experience of a truth-container: export crating, vacuum packing, railcar loading, skidding, shrink wrapping and others, such as may be removed through analysis. But a real beauty, containerized in the cognitive continent of a broad range of not merely inert objectifications but mountains, trackless oceans, with earrings valued by the subjected in shared abjection and subjugation, disjointed analysis, of the boxes & crates, pallet boxes, custom crates; pallet racks; skids: custom heat treated wooden crates, in other words
intermodal containers
with squished
air
tubes.
--x--
Almost impossible to finish without addressing the aura of the dearly deported
(crowbars inert on the floors):
if you simply open the doors of the Porsches and get in
(foregoing any escalating small talk)
you wouldn't be
(mutandis mutatis)
dead by now.

Mac Thom 4d

Cares of a Doorman

First, you unscrew
the faceplate and pry out
the broken door **** assembly,

then you remove
the smoothly machined,
cast iron latch bolt: ‘1914’

stamped on the tongue;
its torso forks
into bow legs.

Twist a paperclip
around its waist
to make it

a crutch
that will drag ends of thread across the floor,
until,

bolt-headed,
it senselessly stands
behind the door.

O my friend,
how long before
you hang?

— The End —