Hands of Wasted Shadows

This last time has been the most meaningful for me.
Your hands of wasted shadows bring a circle to my brow,
Telemarketing your vast awareness onto the splinters of my waiting tremble,
Singing my hairs into laserlike ease of pinch, taste,
Bon mot,
Wind-chimes from out of Hell that I
Barely knew before the paper-thieves came and ripped away my sanctuary.

These days the last thing on my mind is curling away into the sea.
The last thing on my mind is swifting away to a baby-talk of
Regeneration of degenerate phrases meant to lock-step you into
Boldness or nothing,
Sweetness of seaweed over the nickelback times of
Ford’s “all-American” way of running from place to place.

However it’s done, this will be the final knell of wishing’s bell
To end the drying-times falling into outer space,
Landing on top of the curving vortex that sees out to every form of
Westing beast and eastern shape that
Bites into my living and
Sends my hats to another country
Where I cannot remain, cannot,
But where I only live and breathe until this borrowed time is
Fined at the eternal library,
Where all my pages have been burned away.

Pig That He Was

I have heard, in my sleep, that
When you are impatient to go to the bathroom,
It means you were stuck in a breathless bardo the shape of a quail.
Such a place is just as likely to exist as
Mr. Johnson’s Bait-Shack,
Turned into firewood a few years back by an
Impatient constable with no sense of history.
So he blew it down, pig that he was,
And set about renewing his faith in the outer systems of delay,
The ones in which most inland minds find comfort.

When the story broke,
Cameramen screamed around his house and bought his breakfast-cereals for
Top dollar,
Never realizing that what they were paring down for consumption
Was their very loving selves,
Set to simmer in a baking sauce before any lids could crack them into waking,
Dreaming,
Seeming out of this refreshment and into some state in which
No noise is unsettling,
Because you can’t hear them or anything.
Set the timer and run for cover, they say, and do.
The corners leave up, away from heat, and blister back to growing with a
Furor.

Uncontrollable Soup

Distress the dirting bubble above the canopy of mind,
Ticking away the shocks and smocks of nickel-plated time
Read aloud in the undergarments of oh-so-many with whom you have been
Intimate,
Except me,
Always the boys down the street
Without cloud,
Without understanding,
Standing, burning bright in the noonday sun,
Unkempt except for their glowing hair and teeth.
This history is written in the yards of cloth suspended from my inner face,
Knitted and embroidered with the ferocious paroxysms of pleasure
Coursing through your veins and into my waiting mouth.
Subdue it,
Wring it from your mount,
Flowers,
Wet waiting inside the very sea
Itself
Over the endless river that flows from
Before I cared to know you,
Before I cared to see what I would always continue to do to myself
When you weren’t there to
Bright me into speakness.
Break away this flower of my mind into the
Uncontrollable soup of everyday’s food,
And I am here to forget all that in the company of my
Love.
Before I can say it again,
Speak me into all the worlds and
Fly, fly,
Smoothe to me to the vastness of infinite water.