Throngs of scattered tarot cards
among my lost evenings
spent wandering the hallways
of my stupid apartment
like a drunk god
until passing by a standing mirror
losing myself in the image
& recoiling back upon the familiar
I looked & then I recognized myself
& before reflecting on my unhealth
I could not recognize myself
in my own face
that I was a heapish pile
trying to understand itself
like a crippled pigeon
standing in the middle of his bedroom
separated from gods by walls as thin as my throat
hate blooming out like velvety tulips
almost every night I stare into that thing
to glare at myself
transmitting voltage thru a heart cord
like the enteric cytopathic human
orphan viruses or coxsackievirus
B into the dark sun that sits
like an irradiant black stone
full of diseased energy with a spinning
blade slowly tracing the edge
of the smooth infected rock
that sits almost literally
in the center of my being
irritating & eroding
a center that I did not know
was there until the scraping started.
this terror towards
time as though there
were some line separating me
& what I can know about
the swirling chaotic mystery
of my past: of those things
or at least some line keeping
that mystery from invading
again to watch in shock
trying to understand why
it buries roots in my celiac plexus.
These are thoughts I actually have during the day
& I want to massage the anxiety-stone in my rib cage
while I meditate on the pillow in front of my bed.
She leaned over the edge of solitude
& fellin love
under a pseudonym
borrowed from my blue house
in West Tisbury that only sits still
when the maid comes & nobody pays her
because nobody lives there anymore.
The last time I felt this proud
I was intoxicated by a cold breeze.
Overjoyed by rare euphoria needing to record my journey through the terrible day I saw a redeemable past where I guarded a prism of forty nights & the thawing of honesty.
The difference between confessing & bragging
is not in the words.
“A human being can forget
to exist” & then arise from the nightmares
of brain bursting patricide
& emerge broken by the dream.
Only periwinkle melismata flinging nests of pulp
into the unknowing drama of forgetfulness
understand the language of our unborn twins.
Hanging in the yellow stench
of brittle self-control
vistas of suffering
pillars of webs
may we touch again?
At the center of this poem
a reel of thirty five millimeter academy film
in anamorphic anagrams
an infinite film
canter of this poem
playing the supermovie
the last film
left on Earth
nag, stone of loss
if you want to read the poem
there will be no poem
preaching cluttered prey
refrain from growth.
low gig caught in a fast lens
during gusts of ataraxia.
queer thigh, male skald.
the mist of morning grain
bores into the airy forces
millimeters behind our eyes
cross dissolving the speculative epitome
into your open mouth.