A poem from the late 80s by me, read it on my website with groovy graphics if you want.

three for the seesaw

 

 

Crumpling the faces

who live in the folds

they

dare gaze

 

Wood grain

determines a

structure don’t

depend on the

fixative in my

tears. Said the

pitiable but

sympathetic

eponymous hero.

 

(I want the eye

of the public to

see)

 

Two simultaneous

time lines, each

in a different

country, it’s

pointed up like

the rain, but

we’re all lazy

now: dishes

boxes husbands

grey cool sky

messages tricky

raining out

saying “we shall

be released”

 

CIA soviets

siren on down to

the juke box,

pick out some

jingles and

seppuku. Put

them in prism

where they’ll

have time to

refract.

 

By *concrete*

he meant the LCD

display that

kept yelling

Silliman Watten

Hejinian. A curd

sat beside her and

she spotted with

mold.

 

(I want the eyes

of the public disease)

 

Anthony comes

home, drinks a

beer. Claire

calls to say

“I’ve been

putting names in

my writing” Ben

says we’re

desperate, we

put our friends’

names in, we

recognize

something.

 

(I want the eyes of

the puppet to see)

 

Better than the

deliberate rectangles

Herbert Hoover

pretended, or

the reverse type

manifestoes, a hill

of blueberries

threatening to

collapse on those

who dare climb

it, meaning

the sexual threat

of just leaving

the house.

 

(I want the eyes of

the poppet disease)

 

Your name may be

death’s head,

well, mine’s

made up.

 

(I want the eyes

of the puppy to

seal)

 

 

a: confusion is artifice. wipe off that paint.

b: I did and saw bland shapes (I ached to be beheld)