There is a line, superfine, that vertical runs,
To trace its path with the mind is they key
to systematically untangling
ourselves with our suppos’d reality
Banana orange orange coffee cream
sandwich orange orange yogurt cinnamon
honey beer burrito beans cheese rice avocado
cookie cookie soda no water.
A Russian violinist and author once observed the following phenomenon:
An emaciated arm grabs the front door.
- Where is my mug with the college crest?
Fumbling. The automobile and its disarray. Receipts and empty tea packets.
-Fucking paper cups.
No. No. No. No. We say ‘No’ to ourselves by saying ‘Yes’ to 1,3,7 -trimethylxanthine at all hours.
-When will I actualize?
Later. Later. Later.
It is his teetering.
Teetering it his is.
Is His teetering it, it?
The teetering it is, it, his, teeters.
Teetering down the line.
The down lines the teeters.
Teetering down in lines.
In lines his teetering is down.
His is lines in down teetering.
Teeters teetering down lines his is.
Lines down teetering his is.
It Lines is down teetering his.
It his lines down is teetering.
down teeters the line, his is It.
down the line teeters, his it is.
A rhythmic breathing up and down the spine,
the voice softer, more refined,
inflecting with german folk singers,
feeling a vague nostalgia and a grand love.
Opening
Resonating
Vibrating
With the comfort of God’s Food, theobroma, I look out
at my own displays, formulations, postures. This poise
must be real. I am in it, so there is its reality.
Shoulders drawn up, remembering that they are pendants,
struggling to let them hang. Struggle to let nature take its
course. My appendages. My hang ups would be finished
if I let them hang. Not interesting in hanging out, only
transcendence, actualization. Realizing this, by itself,
looks foolish like New Ageism. But given a greater context,
a life, a job, a routine, gains value through contrast. The ground
exists only when there is flight. Vice Versa.
In the gynaeceum, I hide in a bower of dictionaries.
I am in love with their blue covers, their fine print, italicized etymologies, surrealistic lexical histories.
+-+-+-
I am presented with a teaspoon of medicine and scoff at the purple solution. What good is medicine when the thrill of instability draws your center of gravity an infinitesimal distance further off the edge.
+-+-+-
I frame myself as sound-pioneer committed to the timbre of banging head against wall for rest of my life.
+-+-+-
All sorrows washed out nightly in Holy Waters. The Saviour smiles with silver hair and gold earrings.
Poetry is a masculine art. It is projecting vectors of information to be received
in the collective superconsciousness.
Poetry is a feminine art. When I am any good at poetry, I have to
be receptive to the haploid word units as they flit around the surrounding ether.
Poetry is a neuter art. It is the stillness in which no words are necessary.
Except the words that call out the author on his pretense of defining poetry.
The Future’s Doorway minced by parasitic arthropod pulses
I find solace in the fatty acids of sesame, assuaging the internal
wind. Who will find me here with my tasks half-metabolized
as Shiva takes this frail arthritic body. When will the evolutionary
cadence arrive? Secondary school instructors taught rhetorical
questions as gimmicky. I am asserting the identification with
these bones and brainwaves with “I” as gimmicky. Subjugating
all abstract masturbatory forays into this and that as gimmicky.
