1000 Fragments

Something has changed--
blue, bittersweet
snow-- seamless
tangles of moonlight,
maple and oak--
footprints as puddles
of air-- a grand
abstention of cricket,
moth and overall
hum-- that second
shot, aftershock
and echo of that first,
held within that first--
o, copper bullet,
amber slug, tequila--
morphine-- cum--
angelhairs of spine
up, on end-- electric
rebirth of mind's
plasticity into plasmal,
dianoetic grace--

Put the motherfuckers
gainst old walls--
moonlight glints
upon embedded lead
just fine-- fragments
of trees litter
the scatter of bone--
create what else
you would know
as you go-- these o,
so fair worlds do
likewise-- cathedrals
of refrigerators--
what can be thought
dresses man-- all one
wears is metaphor
for soul-- a railgun
under floorboards--
a violet's broken stem
of palest greed--

But the mourning dove
recapitulates--
a ballet of serenade
and scream-- a bed
of forgotten, ergo
forgettable, com-
motion-- cigarettes
in a liquidity
of dream-- a chill
three degrees--
thumbnail to e4--
o, the hail too,
wicked with purity

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Sing a song of Solomon
Fish Tins-- gold-tinged
flakes of fish skins
cold-- as food or ferti-
liser, Solomon says--
a taste like a tumor-
Pop! Inside your head.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

iii.
 
prnegs mimrut eamunw nutris
rngism mertim uenawn tursup
ngsumm ritmen iuwent raspur
gsmumr tumniw einutr sepran
smmart munwun ietirs purneg
mmretm nawnut uiresp ringus
mrtumn wentar uusipr negsim
rtminw nutres aupurn gismem
 
tmnewn tirsup earung summir
mnwint respir uenags mumrut
nwnutr sipren iugesm martum
wnturs purnig eisumm retman
ntrasp rungus iemimr tumnew
trsepr nagsum uimert minwun
rspurn gesmam uuritm newnit
spring summer autumn winter
  

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

i.

spreng simmur eatumn wuntir
spring semmir uetamn wuntur
sprung simmer iutemn wantur
sprung summir eitumn wentar
sprang summur ietimn wunter
spreng sammur uitemn wintur
sprung semmar uutimn wentir
spring summer autumn winter
 

ii.

rspirn gusmem aurutm niwnet
trsipr nugsem aumurt minwen
ntrisp runges aumumr timnew
wntirs purneg ausumm ritmen
nwnitr supren augusm mirtem
mnwint rusper aunugs mimret
tmniwn tursep aurung simmer
rtminw nutres aupurn gismem

mrtimn wunter ausupr nigsem
mmritm nuwnet aurusp ringes
smmirt munwen auturs pirneg
ssmimr tumnew aunutr sipren
gssimm rutmen auwunt risper
ngsism murtem aunuwn tirsep
rngiss mumret aumunw nitres
spring summer autumn winter

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

a mathematical composition of music 
fails without that certain intuition 
which is but tuition to an institute 
of ignorance and mock comprehension
 
as equations themselves fluctuate
in the steady-state of now and now
and here again an atomic clockwork 
splits to splice a shell entwined
 
as ideals undo the dream of day 
as dreams cull this winter night
within dim fabrications of data
 
as rose bulbs in cold compost
compose ariettas less of thorn
for blood than ice for summer
  

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Do you speak without mentioning
the type of god or good (there
are no good gods) that could go
or has gone without mention?

Do you listen? Do you read well?
Do you understand what you eat
and breathe and do you recognise
the medium in which you dwell?

We may as well flip a coin
and call it by what it is not--
Death is a master craftsman

intent upon the perfect tool--
There is no depth to reason--
Meaning itself? Imperfection.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

   
 
comfortable
convertible
 
collisions combine
cotillions sublime
 
as venus treelines dim
in lucid apogamous age
 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

an orgasm, singularity
in which thought and action
completely coincide--

biofeedback, pitched
and bright-- sigil
of the signal of noise

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

What goes on
far longer than any mortal deserves?

A few meals; the dreams of.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

C-D C-D G
windchimes rotor
in a voice
to be heard by hoar

C-D A-G A
or not
not now
or not now

A-A A-C D
alleluia eunoia
shelobstrosity
black quicklime

A-G A-E G
no mirror
act of self
in reason

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Understanding; not-
understanding: in haiku--
the trees talk to mulch

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

I lose my mind to the simple fact of that--
that what is good, needn't be representational
or just-- that all the literalism of lateralism
bows-- that each lyricism is rust-- that snow
that comes like blood-- that soul that runs

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

So we've been emailing, the twenty-plus of us--
half of whom whose identities I'm sure you'd guess
for not being on your side, and half the rest,
whom with a little thought, you shouldn't be surprised
to see enjoying your schadenfreude-- (of course,
there are the staff members who simply wait for you
to go down, that they can takeover and perform
a more than inadequate job)-- and since I've gone
pariah, now untouchable, I'm free to obliquely state
exactly what it is most believe, the obvious being--
you and he are lovers (this gets about even odds)--
now, there are permutations to this (sidebets made
not yet lost)-- does your husband know (or partake)--
has the cock-belch scuzz-eyed crookback hobbit-
tard in question suffered an accident, scrambling
shit for brains, bringing senility decades too soon--
(or is a mentality like that purely congenital)--
are you over-protective, so unashamedly biased,
because the slimeball of churl is family, or lover
(or both)-- but really (and tho this gets long odds,
it is my bet, and will be placed) is that soulless
self-lobotomised hypocritical one-trick phoney
(whose closest approach to personal artistic
creativity is the perpetual whoring of 'eucalypt')
blackmailing you? Be honest now. We dare you to.




 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Be sure he goes on a bit about recent pubs--
if he doesn't state which of those banal
scrawl-by-belch pieces of kitsch and cliche
have been published, boring you with wankery
of the wankery of how generic, pseudo-literate
editors for an illiterate audience in this post-
literate society place his crap in unread mags
as example of both vanity and mediocrity gainst
which others might appear better by compare,
he won't be pleased as a self-greased pig
midway thru a new shit-- and if Retardo's
not happy, somebody'll get banned.


 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 
Promise

the average unimaginative person power
over their fellows--
based upon a uniformity of ignorance
disingenuously called freedom,

equality or self-worth--
as personal choice without personality;
a stagnation
via the status quo of public decorum--

and one will soon
divest themselves of six million Jews,
and quite a few Poles--

not to mention an eternal disavowal
of honesty,
integrity and purity of soul.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

the uninspired liars 
         (cockatrice 
             chimera 
          manticore)
say inspired
      (as tho by wit
     whetted and fit
            to slay)
our lies are made
          (of poison 
    marrow and rain)
(not of truth) 
               bored 
with wisdom feigned.
  

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 
you want an idea
of a dog and man
i tell you break
thy supple spine 
and pray for god
to lift thy chin
and with whisper
lessening praise 
thy life to pull
silence and love
up from a silver 
gun a trigger of 
wing a lead fire
angel upon angel
  

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 
commodify intensification:--
            the blue of bells bell bluely
            no--
                        knuckle to cheekbone

            hooves drum to roar wind
                        within the mechanism of snow
            a stratus pleural, o
            no--

                        spit
            upon the beggar who would be
            cordite & ozone

            o--
            blood wicks to coma-
            flail the orbital gravity of night

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 
"If at all possible--

            voice is a cherub of chirrup and scream
            whose own voice beads as the scratch
            and tine of a syringe upon glass
            in polyharmic attenuation

            thought either memory but self-serving
            revision as false as fair or creation
            broken from dream itself awoken
            into dream true as starfire

            song but mockery of agony
            a curse upon stone that feathers
            rooted and hypnagogic about the heart

            hands but blades that curve
            as nests at nape breast lip thigh
            to egg the harpsichord lines of spine

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

it's okay-- no expectation
to understand-- or rather--
ignorance is thick round you--
which is to say-- really--
life's a lens-- only so
much light may strike thru--
growth but a shift in phase--
no history but yourself--

and truly-- that's okay--
lightning strikes the earth--
lightning strikes the heavens--
lightning strikes itself--

as weapon-- you are nothing--
a type of air-- little else

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

here i am running-- here a dog is running-- here a deer
wades into a river-- here a bird frantic along the ground--
there the palest blue breaking sky-- there no rain but fog

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

the single connective american roadway ideogram--
emblematic tattoo scorched as branch and twine to briar and vine--
black planar-cut ribbons too vast to ever hold in toto--
their thin plastic dissolves to oil no matter how softly lifted--
and the mind a map more subtly defined.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

the fan/ echoes off the wall/ in real-time

and you/ are beautiful as the world/ is cruel

in its/ minimalistic beauty/ rotten as it grows

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Sunlight and two incandescents of three
war for sovereignty of a chessgame
in which each piece marbles black to white--
white halves to the righthand sides
of each player, respectively--

They sit with minds of bright moonlight
deadly in that nebulous thought
wavered tween nova and rock
in serendipitous plot-- nostrils flare

In high storm calm-- pupils dilate
as feint and subterfuge
toil for excellence to strike and fold--

And the room is God and Mind
is not and the war for love is lost.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

it's seven thirty-seven and you don't
wait for your change;
a collapse of ice in a styrofoam cup
on a cement floor;
a smile neither returned nor understood;
you want heaven and you'll never
scream the words that key the doors;
it's vulgar the way truth
scrambles for a hold upon power and loses;
rose petals fall in this ceaseless
storm;
these fires are fires of spine;
you've no words approaching poetry;
stupidity is your life.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

oh hey the trees
all hail the mechanical
icefall swale
heuristic oh say
stepping deer
furs thy spine as oh
majestic
hooves titter-rasp
hollow night by yes
a convenience
of wind
cut with perfect knife

oh may blood
satellite

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

a
sapling bronzed
a
chandelier

a
cage of moss
a
glass table

a
banquet of
a

history as
a
tongue heart