J, you are dust.
(pirated copies of Mirabai,
or somebody equally obscure
in this dark city of
". . .I could have pulled off your dress
with a single threadbare glance
from the terrace. . ."
". . .something like gravity waits for us. . ."
". . .disappear into the granite again,
you wandering single-cell organisms. . ."
we have to paw our way
thru many layers
for a chance
is this architecture or nature or
animal-music or ether?
no quick answer forthcoming,
but still, breath comes short
when I'm with you,
do you realize that?
did you say that?
did you call me that?
cup and saucer of slick
outside the city walls,
hacked to pieces-
"were we children, J?
beholden. . .
only to. . .
something. . .
resembling. . .
(dare I even suggest it?)
( and almost immediately
the answer comes
(we skipped our own party)
I remember our poorly +imed ou+ing
+o +he +rainyard las+ Oc+ober.
Dusk and dus+, homelessness,
+he +ao +e ching, chocola+e milk,
rabid nothingness, yellow scythes
at my throat, violins, Kafka's diaries
indica+e +ha+ +his adver+isemen+
has already s+re+ched ou+ way +oo far;
i+ will no+ be recovered, in no ci+y or bedroom
will +hese crayon por+rai+s ever really be ours again-
a blanket draped over just as the discreet music
was finally ending. . .
beads of rain wait and watch
from the compact discs
left out overnight
by the window. . .
"Only thru this particular 'somebody else'
at this particular 'location' and 'moment'
do I feel my own particular 'life' to have
any particular 'meaning,'
thinly but evenly spread out
over this particular 'surface.'"
The hay-bale crumbles to pieces
out in the further-back trackless fields
because our combined weight isn't enough
to keep the art world's glance for more than
maybe 5 or 6 seconds total-
"But hey- that's at least a start, dickweed. . .
. . .don't we also have our own
special people and items to covet?"
Judy and I cultivate a taste for
and it starts to show up in our
canned goods, plain speaking, rust,
second-hand clothing outdated,
patched, re-patched, patched again,
and increasingly cherished.
Coffee shards slowly ground by a hob-nailed boot,
little tapers and echo-streams carried back
in our folds from the training,
in our skin, mussed and stricken
we come across Hobo Jim in his car-
may have been there all day,
may have had almost nothing to eat
except roadkill, so far removed
from the mad streets of
[insert your proud city's name here.]
Whatever it was that was holding us back,
keeping our filthy mouths shut and locked,
desolate, entire art eras passing away
along with the up-and-out-scaled
aes+he+ic and cri+ical dis+ance. . .
. . .much needed.
Shivering, we walk back to town,
not discussing the "time scale"
we've adhered to thus far;
but sensing, uncomfortably,
that old accounts might be looked into
after the latest opening/extravaganza
is finally nailed shut and forgotten.
Because of you there is space again;
an echo that sounds a little bit like
an old and outdated willingness;
a half moon;
This red crust of silence not explored
as it implored us once desperately,
so out on the front porch and/or
public cum communuity gallery
counterfeits sleep thru their own
invitation to come inside
for refreshment and a free fuck
with nothingness thrown in
for absolutely no extra charge!
This game was a mis+ery
way way before it was "coveted"-
my bedroom studio becomes too familiar
so I simply invest in a blindfold-
I can make out the inlines now
where before there were only
grinning and oiled-up faces-
Judy, because of you
there are gentler places
+o be con+inued.
on rainy late autumn mornings I will often
come out here to my parents' garage
to have a look at my grade school art class
mobiles, sculptures, dioramas, and watercolors.
mere splashes of red, wire, blue, green,
construction paper, staples, cartoon decals,
broken fingers and slow arches
we child geniuses awkwardly planted
so that there might be something flower-like
to dig up later on down inside the dystopia.
in those early days the teachers sometimes talked
about hammering us, nailing us, sanding us,
fixing us, sending us. . .
and guess what, doc-
someone up there has fallen
and another down here
appears to be crippled-
(nothing a little elmer's and duct tape
can't fix and return to the fray.)
there is always
a simple method
and then the method
we so like
pages fall from the mouthpiece
yet the numbers and melt from the typeface
suggest an entirely new and dangerous realm
of creative anti-activity.
masterworks live on the far end
of dollar-store harpoons dipped in vapor.
these adult toys merely slivers
of the schoolchild's old artistic fantasia.
sparks and symbols have hibernated
only to come back as blood pulsing mazes-
unadulterated by all the time lost in
raw and non-regenerate gazes.
my scythe loves me!
I have learned to take such tender care
of its peculiar handle-task and
wicked cutting-edge apparatus.
underneath nameless images,
willing to follow something all the way back,
spinning another wide-eyed little innocent
out from the deep red
and into the black.
rhymes are fun!