So I do

Mmm. Yes.
High times when times are final.
The boom hound lapped me by miles.
Its panting echo leapt from the barrel and struck the rim edge,
Rang it like tracers overhead.

The phosphorous melted off the iron
And the ringing echo settled.
The cartridge spins,
and rest.

But Odor remains,
Nestled in the fat of my firing finger.
I’ve anodized my tongue
shredded my palette
stuffed cotton in my mouth.

Another year is going
And so I do.

Vi

The eyes do not grow old. They become
Clouded sometimes—they cross.
They can sour at hot news or curdle
Like ice melting backwards in cold lumps.
They get their globes glazed
By the heavy gravity of positive to negative,
Promoting collision and the worst kind of collusion;
the kind like white on rice or stink on shit
so you can’t see past it— the glaze.
Eyes become afflicted, they do not grow old.
And as we know, the eyes are the window to the soul.

This morning I saw the immortal soul through the eyes
Of a young old woman who smiled at me over her shoulder
From a bravo afternoon sometime around springtime, 1962.

The chicken or the golden egg

Preparing eyes and ears for a day
is no small feat, no feat too small
for a firebrain, for the wireframe
whatsitgonnabe of whileIsleep.

Why else would the damn thing sing
anagram lovesong architecture
all night long?--kicking while I’m down
but not out, out but not out cold.

Why else’d the damn thing sing
if not to steel my stupid flesh
against the ugliness of calendar
sunshine? Could it be reporting

some bizarre subplot? Or
is it time for shuteye?

Subjection

Faith takes guts no one is ready to spill
Sincerity aside from a white guilt or a lost american war
Come on. Isn't common.

Thoughts of things primary frightening and discouraged
Passionate pacification sinks sleepily into our eyes
To participate only in pretty prepared screen action

To forget our wills and make them small
To make a choice only between malls
That new bag is the best you can do
You're free! Don't define, do!

And the people cry at one another, deafening and clear:

Flee to screen or mall or weed!
Two philosophers have disagreed!

Any object can be you!
And you can finally be an object too!

Summer 2009

I dont work a job in the day
and I have no time for hobbies
Instead I stand in my doorway and chew gristly questions
That taste like cigarette filters
That most people have chewed and digested by college
But I had doubt jammed in my gears
A four year old anxiety boy kept asking
Probably just sparking the apathy wheels
Into tension
To see some kind of motion
If only it were a daily grind (pun in tension)

I'm lazy and bored with the day
Its ideas refuse to entertain me and so I too often return the favor
I fuck around like I'm making a point
Personify everything, then argue with the sun for cutting and running
The heated sky apart
And petition (bitch) him later about the sweat in your shorts
And the ache in my gut that joins the chorus of shouting things
A loud nature, I wish it was polite
Left me some peace

Left my head out of it

At least attempted harmony if they have to go on like they do
Gave me better sentences to write than I do

_

For now

Go back to choking on half baked faith
Read about an ascetic you'd hate to meet
And an old ecclesiast's poem gilded in black ink
Running with the same thoughts you've had

Then dip it in the fountain doubts and wash it clean
Isn't that easier to read?
To forget?
Now swallow the rest of those loose connections
And pray you have intentions in your intestines

If I could
You know I would
Be lying nude under moonlight
In the crevice between three converging boulders
Whose carpetbraid of moss is continually refreshed
By a steady sheet of spring water.

I want to see the fresh water clear,
I want to see cold water dark,
And I want the water's shim passing over my thigh to update me on the condition of the stars.

In the ice of a brook bed on the cannibal days of summer,
I am nude when the rain stops and the wind returns comfort
To the stones that moon like lizards do at sun, on them
When I am far too drunk to lull my head to see the stars myself.

***

Beaneath willow shade--
Willow not weepy, just swaying,
Shading--
Lightning bugs are happy teasing
Off my meters distant.

Lying in the vessel of a stream,
The shim updates my reality.

Round up round up
point 60

Time is 60
and 60 is from now
Till time runs out
And the knob is switched to 40

Switch switch stitch:
My pants go from the washer.

Plastic’s on the crumble
Soapsgone
And the lovely girls who scrubbed our clothes are gone.

Now we spit groundwater down a box
And churn filthy rags
Till brainslikepruneslike virgin fingers do
Set too long in solution.

6 time is 4 time is wage time.
Join the one big union!

It waits clear, conceived in sheets of farble
Draped down portholes
And sheaved in white appliance.

Behind door one two three:
Convenience

TV meanness

Isleislefreshness

Your door, NUMBER 4,
Has not so much inside;
Your cook machine,
Your watch and clean,
AC ISP.

Soon we’ll find our structure stuck like towers of cold aluminum
Where fireproof furniture can’t break windows
And the screen behind my mirror tells me all the things I told myself
behind a mirror once.

“You display the symptoms of Vitamin D deficiency.”

So take your breakfast down
before dash pinch sitdown--

eat it up eat it up.

Then bark news,
fuck,
and done begins again.