they have made fools out of themselves
to take the given inside burning mess
and digging gold from it from the loving work
and put into order the mess of the second
and still they would turn their heads into stones
and know ***** little secrets with their eyes.
secrets that have never been born.
they would just stand there and acquire the gold
silver and bronze of the air
and become the pillar of some badly lighted room.

pinned to the cushion like a promissory note
how do you enjoy an avalanche of overshot gestures?
in the distance are the fields where the dancing clowns
feast upon your shortening lungs.

swim back to the air.
striped pajamas in a window can change the world.
so can good ventilation and humor.

throw away with a flicker of the hand.
what does it matter?

ballroom weights upon single words.

sly voice in the door
creak on my chest
shut up, shut the **** up
you smart man,
you concentrated linear
sly snake
--- i got nowhere to go,
i will melt into this bed
with my red eye and shut sinuses
and half a drum set at my feet
and thinking, unbelieving, scared
eyes, eyes, i'm tired tired mouth
. got nowhere to go. did i let my brain
be shut by sly sly sly snakes?
did i exchange free music and free floating
vibrating bodies for secure swamps
of weak discriminations?
constant obstructions behind my neck,
a constant itch in my throat and aches
my left red eye, and broken right arm
and collapsed stomach and groin -- i walk like
i just walked out of a war,
i'm just walking out of a bar.
in 2019. in this forgotten swamp of frail
nothingnesses.
feel like on the tv all the time, feel like
i'm on some documentary giving out the unspeakable
secrets of my life, diluting and watering down
every last bit of authenticity and mystery and
strength that life naturally grants us -- i see
microscopes in eyes and spiky lashes in every word,
and futility in hoping for a smooth walk down the road,
to have each note of each music you listen to be a small
universe on it's own, a microorgasm that lifts the chest
the feet and the shoulders high, carrying you off
with fluorescent angels through the night, into the warm
place of dreams and scents and magical beauties.
nowhere to go but to melting into the bed.
and no new grammars that approach like battleships.

--- i cry but my face is stone