My face is in labor it’s giving
birth to a nose
And a washcloth which reminds me
it’s time to write a poem
In praise of memory and return the
ankle
I borrowed from someone last night
in Costa Rica
Which is odd since I’ve never been
to Costa Rica
As for memory let us say it is a
giraffe
With its head above the clouds and
glistening from the rain
There is a chromosomal syntax that
remembers how
To create living beings
inflammations of words
The color of desire. I live in
a zip code
So full of pathos that even the
boat propellers weep
With oil and a huge blue star
emerges on the horizon
Soaked in quicksilver blisters.
Words soaked in meaning
Engender caterwauls of humid light.
Sometimes I can feel the air
Has the ability to decipher itself
as a form of glass
Tarantula tapdancing on a thin blue
line
Of turmoil. The mind of a ghost can
pull a thought
Through the breath of a clarinet
and come back out
As a particle of meaning wounded by
quiet. One day I hope
To understand reality with the same
level of intimacy
As the interrelatedness of all
living things. The way a vase
Sits on a table paying attention to
itself
Is truly remarkable. I can distill
a parable
Or two out of this rhythm right
away
And have it delivered on your
doorstep tomorrow
By two o’clock, which is my
favorite hour
Of day. Meanwhile I need to talk to
the tailor
About his appendix. The fusion
of electrons
Inside the scrotum of a bank
manager
Create red giants of wallpaper that
are scandalously
Similar to the curtains in a New
Hamphsire motel
Off Highway 89. No one knows why.
But this is the
Generosity of art. It shows
the world
At one with itself, even when
performing its magic
In the scrotum of a bank manager.
Many philosophers
Postulate a plurality of modes of
being. It would be
Quite misleading to give the
impression that
All of those philosophers who
thought minds
And their activities have something
to do
With the existence of works of
art
Also thought that this means that
works of art
Were somehow less real than,
say, moonlight. Idealists
Invert this hierarchy. Reality is
built with teacups.
This is why creative expression
takes place in a cosmochemical
Igloo called Divertimento, and is
tied to the laws of poesy.
I want to inhabit your chemicals.
Because it amuses me
To do so and I feel circumstances
in my legs
That sometimes cause me to dance. I
have a warm eye
And a red rag, and with these
things I will start a plywood garden
And bear the armada of my lips to
you. There is the thinness of
wasps
To consider, and large azaleas
consommate as paper
Creating a paradise of curbs and
kayaks. The mountains
Are bigger than your laundry. You
must study walking
In the underworld. Colors are
notoriously unreliable
But you can always catch an
elevator
In which to sing a Steve Winwood song
Dear Mr. Fantasy play us a tune
something
To make us all happy. If a sound is
working then it must
Flare into garlic and bring us hope
and curlicues.
The splended blue talents of the
yucca
Might be considered to be a poem
And it is grand to do so. This is
me
Kissing your jewelry. I am assuming
that your avocado
Fits my eyes. My face is unanimous
in its arteries
And here comes my nose guided by an
earthquake
If only to smell your pantry and
come to fruition
In an old house in Texas
thermodynamic as dirt.
Poetry is sometimes so blatantly
autonomous
It will never win a prize. The
fetus sweats
Among its doorknobs, and when the
arcades of the chest open
The delirium is enough to sustain a
belief in tenderness.
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