I.* there is no thicker undergrowth than feeling. first to go is reason, everything
else levitates into something graver than say, one foot deep in the grave
and the other somewhere off-tangent like an offbeat adagio zigzagging
into slammed slalom.
II. the crush of oregano against mortar, and the clasping of a hand. carbon monoxide
fades into air as youth takes on momentousness. take for instance this once soft
hand like a breath of cotton in a precipitate noon: once whirling in claustrophobic
space, this slight inch of feelingfulness is dazed into the span of *Maya windhovering
somewhere unseen like paramours *******.
III. from the window you can feel the bluster of falsetto disintegrate at its slouched peak,
and from where you hear it, a dance thwarts itself like a cigarette ember
convulsing mid-air – that slow, repugnant twitch: that is you, when you first
broke your silence in thick shrouds of disgust over strobe-lighted simian jaw.
IV. what else is there but to take this sour ocean in front of me and decode something
the blue always means mellow but the froth of white something the tragic caprice
of tropic: some nights, they remind me of bodies careening repeatedly; some days
they just are, like you, just are, like a riot and only sound, or sleep and only
reticence, something short of wonder and terse with reply.
V. there is a cluster of harmonies flowering in my mind when the sensurround of din
starts conflagrations in the ornate dark of ear. my limbs snake in the garden
of plank, my shin bitten in sharp reiterations – my mind crossing the equinox
looking for shade, or possible, a parasol underneath the crimson of rain.
say this is the sky, this dense space when I motion both hands into a length
not an inch could ever devour. suddenly a boy made out of a man, flustered
in jangled arpeggios and unapologetic thought like a letter of debt opened,
paying no heed the mind and only what the body dictates: a smash on the
escritoire or vigorously scratching scalp, reopening scabs and watching
old blood ooze dry like a lightweight webbed impression
of a dreamy legato.
VI. the night deepens with the warmth of its black upholstery – we do not know
when to stop and bid for home. last to go is will of force and first to arrive
in the bleakness like a recalcitrant thought often straying outside with the
strut of a yuppie, fervor of old haunt. i conjure an image over the cold chair,
its steel framework thighs untouched, its four decrepit legs the foundation
of something that refuses to admit its weakness. the very base of what would
catch the anchorage of my gravity, the very heart of all, and the flattened back
with a vandal that says “Soleil was here.” the liver shattering in the trance
of everything.
VII. night is stupor. i am the lilt of words from a rambunctious machine. there seems to be an afterthought that separates
a concept of vastness and the tactility of narrow ether.
a word is uttered in extremis - something heaven eschews
with its bright, arrogant face.
some drunken rambling.
