Unbridled daphnomancy – for rockers…
I walk on hay
The future’s surprise is its
demise – all
I hold deer
and rubbing
velvet antlers
I loved a little
fool – unloved like
a battlefield – ear
to the honking sky
When love wilts
the chickweed comes
up – inquisitively,
I guess. The monsters
are problem pain, killers
of blind trust. The weepers
have a fluid body, they rock
back and forth,
hopelessly. Another
wide-eyed child
makes sucking motions
and gazes around
space – it “congelates”
into a kind of sense.
I thought. You loved
me. Hanging hooks
for miniature chandeliers
inside my poor skull –
poison Victorian flowers,
rumpled cravats, sun on
giant diamonds, etc.
I should have been a ragged
maharani scuttling across
the threadbare tapestries
of dusty palaces. I should
have been a marine
mammal with an aggravated
sense of space and a feeling
of feelings.
Stampede.
Psychotherapy – for
goldfinches.
Where are the knots
of tears? The knots
of tongues? A familiar
and bulbous plateau.
Null. Secret mills.
Language low as
the bush.
Then I have a nightmare
about nightmares – the putz
or quartz of life.
What are the tears
of their gripping? Their
sent twist? Rest with
whatever it is that you
go native. Rest with
counterproduction
and “arm vintage”
furband immersion.
It is wordling –
wordalong.
Wildcats
can be revealed –
in your chemistry
and in your
vocabulary.
Bridges – wheels –
twists – oxycontin
for the soul. Call
for a free evolution.
Today I’m beautiful,
rowdy, gingham, and
time. Amber can –
Amber corn – the world.
Precious – like a hooligan.
Muzzling softgels, counter-
revoltutionary arm.
Entering the salmon
of cadence – its flighty twist –
and a doll – of nothing.
My limbic system says
“softgel” to a herd
of tiny monkeys. A rabble
rouses the overdetermined
grid in the fine gala
of critical thinking – yep.
Step into it – awful bursting
magnolias – poetry’s hurtful
squeal. Solfegging my life
away. The books – their
doctrines – gang up on me,
quince torpedoes in the
staleness of presence. Smith
and Ninth becomes suddenly
exquisite. I open a door
of perception to find another
tinier door. Behind that door,
graceful debris:
miniscule infants
a tiny worn combat boot
a miniature Ouija board
miniature black spectacles
a tiny crumpled packet
of Veggie booty
I don’t know, I’m on
some journey
that pain makes
free and the drugs
change my cells
into lilypads – and
all the world’s
a murky pond
A heron comes
to land there – a blue one
with a weird eye.
Hello, heron.
And spears a frog that has
a giant diamond in it.
It was the diamond of Utopia,
ha ha, too large for the heron
to shit out.
It’s stuck in there until the heron dies,
but the heron is immortal. Oh well!
I take a walk on some honey,
The honey is from the moon.
It blasts radio sound.
Yeah!
Otohime 