Conduction

We are never more than half an hour away from nowhere.  At twenty-three, I found a bad connection.  A navigational mistake takes me over the edge of the map and back again to not giving a shit about reality, and whether my head belongs in the clouds or up the ass of some sailor who's two three and four-timing me, the one foolish lady who waits at home naked, bated on tender looks through the telephone, strip-teasing on skype in the middle of the night and hoping my roommates don't come in.  Even though I locked my bedroom door, it still makes noises as if something is trying to get in to my brain.  Pink Floyd paranoia paints me a softer shade of blue that will eat itself for supper--did she call it dinner?  Charlie Sheen is winning at the craps table of red queen and hatter, catcalling at Spanish Gibraltar heart flings, violin strings that break and coil when we touch them, pressure sent quivering down my spine, the horse's hairs run fine as bow ties, champagne lying about being in the closet with R. Kelly, and Tom Cruise leaping on Oprah's couch because he's so in love with denial, the mental firing of Donald Trump and all other orange-faced CEO's of mediocrity, spare me the lecture on the greater morality of ignorance, defacing the state of humanity so quickly as a divorce, the steady rate of infantile shake-n-bake syndrome, E.T. phones home and gets charged for roaming, the overall tone is condescending and I don't think it's necessary.  I'm trying to break myself of the habit of listening to the madness that's chalking up my brain like cyanuric acid in a skimmer, choking the sand filter that's fixated on one common objective to drill for hope and oil--men, who stare at the wreckage of hunger.  From the oval office, Herman Cain declares that humanity can overcome the aliens, the illegal salient memories of bygone eras, we seek to erase history from happening, the social status of the nanny welfare state and prolapsed anuses on display for Santorum's enjoyment, Anthony Weiner, why can't I let you go? You make it too easy for me to say something, none of which has any consequence on the greater tuning of my piano with no strings, you broke it, that's where you place the music while you're playing, how will we make it with out any directions and preconceived notions of plans, none of which ever work. We make one, we get there and then shit hits the fan, so lets just go balls deep and do the finger in the butt-hole while giving a blow-job thing. Hap tries to stay up with the young people so he takes ballroom dancing and romances long-haired red heads with pretty lips until they get married and have kids--how quickly Tara's life has changed, and random that I found her name living at the bottom of my cesspool, curdled milk and rotting green tomatoes make a lovely stew, chasing a shiny green bug across a wooden bridge, me-n-you are children.

Zephyrus

sometimes you can see Jesus through the muddled words on misogyny and hyperbolic events correlating to hypothetical debates on biochemical warfare versus the  reverse prostitution we would wage on the heads of states and great nations, kings and presidents tumbling down after what in their mind is an apocalyptic nightmare we see diving Love.  The coastal marshlands snaking atrophy across the warming globe, pipe lines drill barren oil bellies—keep your politics out of my panties sir, your misguided attempt at establishing order is coming all over your face, pumped full of naked reality withering visibly at the groin.  We moons got the better end of the deal on coming, to terms with the former thoughts of male protection debases soul body blood and urine, Mother’s earth womb rendered clitoral mutilation and here beating your wife is a fashion statement, the importation of sex-slave workers. Rose wears a whistle around her neck for the children of Cambodia, all the Mothers who have come Holy before Her, radiant beauty beyond my limited frequency of vocabulary, ordinarily I feel prolific, but in terms of poetic communication my senses seem lacking, Sister Juana counting down the hours until Her resurrection, the new lashing for lackluster high beams down a brittle highway, pavement crumbling under rubber wheel and rebar trembling, Earth quakes from Her thighs and steams an eruption—interrupting my stark drowning in the Chesapeake Bay.  Geese are still returning on this cloudy day, honking up the Southern sun that follows closely on their trails, the wind dragging yellow off the trees to replace it with green bloomers turning upward to flash you the lean to fort in the forest, bouldering down the hill untied up, the great canyon fissure of land that wants to be refilled of water, she keeps tipping the plastic bottle to catch that one little drop at the bottom but she’s sinking, the silt dissolving under her draining feet feels like too obvious of an ending, the thoughts still trembling on the precipice of Whitmanian candor but lacking the will to leap felicitously off the stalwart mourner, silent morning ripening pale tomato in the steam.

Cross

looking at the sun while listening to moonlit sonata playing symbiotic melodies in my head. my eye spun backwards, a rubber tread mark left on the pavement, some naked angel mistaking neighborhood watch parties for take-out services, mental health facilities aging, capacious sterile hallways of forgotten minds, yesterday's last tuesday was the sunday after march, my recorded aliases lined for miles down eastern avenue.  baltimore mortar and molotov cocktail, make merry we ourselves for we can't afford not to.  september blooms faded into june, another life passed and waned with you sitting at my bedside.  the stable rides in a horse drawn marriage, ladies made cold alabaster under masculine gaze of chiseled paint rub, finger paint a french girl, a nude print whorl on a police identification card, they stamp you at the station, free the nation the right to strip search and seizure for seventy-seven on the dollar, the fiscal holler into frozen well of holy oil, the crab walk toil of men who read books and hope to find truth between sinful words of wish fulfillment, masturbatory rhymes and cadences that tit my own senses but drive everyone else insane, the inane logic of man proclaimed from the highest tight walk.

Untitled

sometimes using a text edit makes for a better program, nature's ballet of summer squalls and winter wooden jaws collapsing madly as a hammer on a brass cymbal mattress, the waitress settled down collapsing on her mattress, passing overture continues rapidly, Hungarian praying swan pirouetting softly to the ground, the symphony stage swelling tender as the night, naked pointing stairwells measure cool eyed patience despite one beating harp, harp on dreams distracting you from the dark, watered down existence spread thin across two river dams. the beaver swimming up river skitters under the rock we are on and doesn't come out again--we are so fine at disturbing the rhythm of life, we ask why too much and complain when it doesn't happen.

Lines

Brian stays in hazard because the work is good and he doesn’t have enough saved up to move, but most people that stay end up pill-popping and/or pregnant, wondering what-if as they watch themselves get fatter.

I will be living the what-if. 

I know it sounds vindictive and I suppose it is impure, but I can’t help how I feel and I will not be ashamed anymore. 

God has left the back screened door open for me, the moss eating over the cinderblock footpad and playing Strawberry Jam on vinyl, dancing around Gurpal’s living room, Sweeney had just started out-growing his beard, raver man with bowling balls for knees and toothpicks for shins, tripping over his own clown feet.

Out here we take it deep and nothing below the surface. 

The curvature and currents of Earth’s directional intake, passenger sideways chance at daring mobility and backseat driving on Carrs Mill Road, everyday, straight through the intersection with Grafton Shop it turns into Vale Road, and then you make a left on Red Pump. 

They put in a traffic circle out front of the new elementary school, keep going straight through there then at the bottom of the hill make a left onto Cedarwood, second left onto Pearwood and it’s the third house on the right, white house with blue shutters, after the assholes with the Confederate flag hanging outside. 

Gee thanks, I feel so welcome in your neighborhood.

I know, tell me about it, and this is when I get jumped on for calling people rednecks and white-trash, they get so offended you’d think I’d spit on the Bible.  

First of all, Rachel said, rednecks are the first people who will give you the shirt off there back, more then any other stereotyped group of people, and second of all, white trash is white people trying to be some race they are not—

and it went on but I will spare you her grammatical failings and lecture on the greater morality of a bunch of ignorant racists; this is classic.

Each season I change with the procession of weather and birds and colors and failings.

I stand on the bottom rung of Nona’s iron balcony in Ocean City and turn my head to the left to the East, the Atlantic Ocean churning rock and oyster martinis. 

With the wind at the back of my head, my hair gets pushed out at all angles around me, wild mane swirling blonde night energy raiding the plaster highway for boogie men and bar fights, bastard flings and cheap dates to Party Block, the hipster broad rimmed glasses make me think of Harry Potter more than anything but it’s all so funny—

sad, really, if you want to be real about it, but funny too, I can’t help it.

Messing with Form

There is a bird who sings a thousand rhymes

and builds his nest with sticks and seeds, wind-chimes

sing Babel, rest ably on the cherry tree—

his breath be hardly noted, duly told

me of his neighborhood, his den

and bounty, thickly made, Ricki Ticki

raccoon rustle through the leaves,

thunder rush before the stew and snow—

the weather toe is digging in.

Reverse Osmosis

I tell myself to calm down and let go, but to be in control, liver folding out distortedly, cupboard doors falling off their iron hinges, peaches, pears, plums and oranges tumble out onto the counter and bounce down to the floor.  Monkeys make mental homage to seedy halogen bulbs, indiscernible magazine cut-outs plastered honorably across my forehead.  Times New Roman opera in another language, but you know what’s going on by their inflection, chin gesticulating inner dialect and outward action.  Curtain rises on an empty stage except for a bread crumb; shivering off stage is my willing hand, looking for a glove, and fingertips on which to stand victoriously.  Earth is God’s laboratory so long as we labor unstandorious, weak and huddled.  Give me your tired, your poor and your hungry, homeless bans on helping people, Cardinal terrorists and Florida gunmen, New York bull rides, riot-police storms, wild packs of shepherds gone renegade: they left their pews in the highlands, grazing singularly, multiplied—wool fiber light synergy, the soul bending energy of Celestial light, stars so bright there is no dark matter, only purple consciousness bursting through carbon glass and awareness, crystal staring face of one cerulean eye, the teary reminder of reality dusting our hand softly, asking us to knock on the floor, beat the boards out from under us, pull the chord from tender hearts and bleed the breathing day, leaping joyously, Whitmanian candor pouring out solute and solvent, in two interlocking microbes.