This might be earth. I am riddled with questions and some third thing. There are species of color and all along the way you look at me. A high mocking majestic sea mothers me without the kindred low hum in the elephantine night. You could always be caught wallowing in the telescope. That truth I could find myself falling into, cool with a look of what gets green always merging. Diabolical and shorn, I stood in my spindle dancing. Then the bragging wore off and characters emerged, collecting drums at the edge and making the blaze a furious spun collective...jewelry of the head, festive with cracked glass, et cetera. But even without hands these pages here are moving. And a small mouth comes lipping violets, gardenias in the dogwood park of nasturtiums, so whatnot it has to have a thrum to verb its end. Rather glorious without the burning parts. Just a ho hum of a sketch here, just a trinket in fingers. It wasn't just me, holding rocket food the eleventh switching timber. That is the show we gathered to see, bright fiend of the medium and then shucking the medium to be alone in air. And air rang so sweet with murmurs of silent arms, quickly mustering more excellent air. Queasy and musty is how we are going to play this electric gearbox. A trick with the hand finding the mouth and dark finding us both ready to emerge from the business end of the universe. Like, where is the atom just the beginning? And could we go so very much smaller? A crinkle isn't even the threshold anymore, as it's all a funk of goo and grasping sliding. These are stories for both of us. Me and all. It has been long since we sat down to build those things we need to be alive. That finger of wire, that hand in the murk. Behind low growls we ache to swing. Black mask with rivet-holes where eyes once went. That smash yes and the busted car we crowed off the cliff: they are tall for you when you get to where you stand. Charlie was the name of this bum galaxy that had its wayward eyes shorn as I tracked past on molten everything. Like a kiss in the wind, it's still there. But going numb is part of the goodness of it, as your face flies homeward, up to bric-a-brac stars.
Almost like the buildup of snow in the mingling mountains, we word this ripping string. Diving down is how we wake: shiver out the
drunky morning, sound of traffic-clang and hand goodbye. Here some meaning, here a fish that grumbles when we figure the world. Always a crosswise
world, always a pale resistance. Nearly all of life will happen without us. We
remember that we are for ashes, for grinning and for times. A grey-black fuzz
hangs in corners and we try not to heel around it…try to go through. Here
we are in the fire that sloughs us off.
The grey granite of big intentions has me in a worldly
crunch. Wobbling in time before time, we saw each other and ran towards life.
What innocence is it that I see inside my own head and watch microscopic sharks
thrusting everywhere without pretense? What rain and what kaleidoscope? Put
your hand in mine and we can sleep until the end of sleep. And small fingers come
through autumn. A little garden ripple and then quiet. No one moving, and no
one going to move. The them that we call us wavers and embraces--lost needles
finding their way to beats. And crumpled creatures, breathing tiny yawns of
singed relief. No one gazed the way we gazed that way, that day. All was a
subcutaneous tide of sighs. Water in me and me missing my cave. It’s too long a way to because. Because you
found a way to think the emblems out of dust. I was wrong and right, the way a
ship eventually goes down. Someone knows they should sing a song, and everyone
pretends to listen.
Here is my blank. It smells of wide white. I have been so
many. I am alive, alone, etc. I allow for the opening and it keeps not. Space on the page and rent of time on earth. Then should we be two or very
many? Every something in the grey of this. Weight of the whole void. These innocent catastrophes. Surviving this will take my death. Sun shows up with some
new flower I eat or turn into. Bright red happens and a party rushes in, just
to light it up and laugh its name. Each other to hold. And in tremolo sunset, I
open. Reveal tiny turtle shell or quiet black marble eye.
now how do you put it when you have a list of names and everyone on your list
is someone you love and someone who has screwed you? There is always the reason
and always the dark mud that seeps out when you try and get yourself ready to
speak with whomever you try and guest out with...which is really you trying to
ghost out. They are the same thing and despite your innate ability to forgive,
which comes from having a saint for a mother, you rectify the situation by
shouting. And even as you shout you know that moments later you'll be forgiving
and apologizing in the same sentence. The same breath, even. And then the girl
you are afraid of (because of how she swings your brain into glorious dreams of
lust and joy) comes up to talk to you and you avoid saying the thing you want
to say because you are, after all, just a primate, bent on keeping the social
contract. Mostly. And then you feel like the world is something that was made
by others for others, and you are here to try and find a place to fit in but
you can't because good people are other people and manipulative people are
other people and you are somewhere outside, or in between, or both. And so then
you listen for the sound of that one bird, with that resonant metallic vibrato
that trills the afternoon blues away. And you hear it and you think of having
an erection, and you feel a little inspirational shame and it sets you up for
the right kind of moment to slap yourself in the face when the wind kicks up
and you have the windows down and the stereo bagpipes piping on the high
highway. And the mountain casts its shadow over you. It casts its grey and
green shadow to give night the hollow hum it needs to keep you awake and
thinking of the pauses in your life where you actually learned something. And all
your thoughts reflect outward from the shimmering bubble, like you inside a
snow globe. Only in this one you can be the one who shakes it.
I have to pee right now so we have to make this quick. Let’s
try and come around the other side of death. I mean, since there is birth in
this world (which is fucking bananas) then there is also music. The one and
then the other and a whole bunch of other stuff in between. Take these words
and walk up a mountain and find something like the golden last light of the day
you’re in, and try these words: "Hey, night, I know I am a part of you, just
as you’re a part of me, and the air and the stars and all the rest of the shit I
don’t even know about is all out there and in here, awash and spinning. Like the
spirits of everything are haunting everyone, even the sand and the ditches and
the mustard in the fridge. You can’t push this out. Everything made is made
with the care requisite to prop it up in the precarious abandon of the crashing
world. For a time every thing and every being has its own grace, and then
clunks away." Right. I’m done. There’s the poem. You might have missed it. I
have to go pee now.
Use the old tools and dig up the new earth. Then wash your hands and show me. Eat. Be alive. Then your house will quake. Stand on the ground where you saw what you needed. Focus on the lights ahead. Be the runner and the one who wakes up. There are no tricks. We just pretend we know what we're doing and then shout onward. This is the way to the best mess.
The cloud rolled away and I found my head. It was under the bristling conifers, wavering in the breeze. I had a frog and an orchid in my ears. They moved in iridescent green pathways through my oblong conundrum. I gyred and cawed. My eyes drew close to me with tears and a hurrying hound looked back. There was me, shuttled between planets, old and new. My hands and fins made tiny parabolas in the swim.
A million miles under the lamps. A million miles in rain. A mile for every shoe you've never worn. You can see them now, shimmying in the given starlight, becoming soil in endless graves, worn and waiting in the foyers of a billion homes. And the planet wrinkles like a crow's foot, chuckles onward through night. Statues and statues of selves in the tsunami whorl of history. And history is a ruse for thinking that we make time. Of course time makes us, then lets us go. These horses in this field...what bridles and what bonds can hold you, when you see beyond the rim of the world?
An Italian-American Spaceman Foresees His Death:
Smashing against ashen walls, alone in space,/
Weirdly wired, mind warping/
Through the void, veering over/
The vapid edge of madness, mumbling aloud,/
"Per aspera ad astra, you young asshole./
It’s a rough road to the stars, Rotando."