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Thanatos
All men are born; all men die.
Mother is the invention of necessity.
Grand Mal
hunch for a trainwreck
or train robbery
--Glendale philanthropy,
Sparks' herpetology,
tiny oopsy in da head,
an erratic ignition,
delusion of grandeur,
a moon shot,
or Mars landing,
seizure--stumper,
semper Sedona,
distemper,
mush or scrapple,
a scrunch,
a spleen burst,
elicit fobbery,
gargantuan snobbery
--a partial speck,
spermatozoic premonition
--explosion of murmurs,
avalanche of protuberances,
Holst hotties,
antediluvian perihelions,
dismember or dat one,
freak temper or frat one,
anythings' antibodies,
cod toddies,
lump bumpers'
lumps
You Sun
so peach colored,
brimming
with heat, sore
when white,
how your corona
cleanses you
--as geese wash
themselves in a pond,
preen next to cypress,
rising through your zenith,
spreading orange then yellow,
white through greyish clouds,
how unusual the spots,
how lovely in bright gas,
not burning metal,
not clothed in fire,
--allowed to look at you
only for an instant,
our eyes sing
all night long.
This Body, This Voice
1
Examples of this body
are everywhere and here
under a table, the loose bits
of skin torn from its psoriatic
elbows and hips, peelings
like fish scales in the drain
if only it were skin
from some golden apple
bare to any mouth,
to a girl
who takes it
in her hands
and bites,
heedless,
yet full
2
This voice: like bells
bells like flowers, petals
like soft keys played
in some concerto not
written for them,
but somehow just them
just this, a tiny piece
that rings
like sunshine,
like peals
of green glass tinkling,
broken by skin,
sent through a metal
wand,
to air
Opaque
Once he longed for the ____ he became more
opaque as though light in its ____ points could
not penetrate his substance--what substance there
was since the word had ceased to have any meaning
for him. He tried to convince himself he wasn't
disappearing: "I'm as much as there ever was."
He partitioned his being into here and there
--as if he were grocery shopping at a store
with which he was forever unfamiliar, the aisles
turning this way and that way until he couldn't
find canned peaches, bottled apple juice, clams,
chips--Where had he gone? What would others say
now that even he had lost his voice with its old
timbre? Its old tempo? Once he longed
for the unutterable, he began.
Cosmos
this black matter
that bends starlight?
nothing but blinking
like the sprinkles
over a campfire
where the shaman
tries to trap
us with his song?
old stars, like crumbs
of leftover magic
fed to Black Masses
beyond our galaxy,
beyond Fourier?
maybe they are
holes, sprinkled
on the fires
of our eyes?
our eyes?
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