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The Insomniac in the Kitchen
Matrimony of gray matter to a mast
Electrocutes the home, white as a wasp.
Fries crisp the fat of our land.
In the caverna--
Fibrillating lobes drill forth the inquisition
Infesting with the neural vapors (plaster, tile, it’s
pan-dimensional in the grout).
It’s cannibalized my basement with polysyllabic
conceit,
Chimeras painting panoramas on the storm door,
Ululating fractal plaids on the air’s black screen,
seams dreaming to be king.
Minor sea monsters of your pocket pantheon
Pass psychic tumors: miscreant jewels all over
the furniture,
Scintillating, infinite with surface area,
Erratic, semi-automatic socket seizures and a
hyperactive oven, not the tub,
We hypnotized it with pills.
The insomniac in the kitchen,
Evil reveals its briefcase in your nimbus,
Three days now qualify as one.
The witch trial at dusk,
The accusation at dawn.
Commencing to creep, the worm-coat
Examines me for easy vacancy, my secret stash
of apertures,
While inward herds itch out,
Towards the bureaus flaming yaw,
Whose peeling bones of dangerous paint are cloned
from my own.
So this is how life eats you!
How death displays its spectrum!
Admission to our aristocracy, meeting on the
precipice,
From a dyslexic alphabet of moments,
Fragile as the hotbed of out jelly hoods,
The neurotic membrane of sleep, erotic as a
peeled nerve,
Throwing the small ones back...
The liquid partition eviscerated by the tarnished
bone of your visage,
By the totalitarian sponge,
Issuing horns to overthrow smiling--
Put them on! It’s an order!
The elegy of yoga, I absurdly wring my limbs,
On the floor, on the bed, on the lawn, on the insect
highways.
Thought will embalm you,
Erect as electrons, something burns.
Who’s the defector?
It’s epic, blood routes where ants prance stomping
in the buzz of the veins,
If this styrofoam was an organ it would be
watermelon,
breathing labored in its thin red oppression
of juice.
Ocean Sounds
Put a parody of my ear up to it,
Relinquished body of horn and satin,
Nautilus of solitude, shells deafen with the sea’s
white noise,
Inverted nipple to my nap.
The sound is swarms suckling, feeding
From undertow cracking in the hearth,
five hundred bee mouths plug with sand.
Quiet cowry twin, glorified clam,
My auricular stunt double with chalkier expression,
concrete cheeks,
A close look reveals calcified emotions in the action
scenes.
Stoppered in this unexceptional object:
A lion’s mantra, forlornly lip-read in roaring
Buddhist space,
Droning in the genie’s chasm, spewing verdicts left
and right,
How alone, how awful is your warbling love song to
caged infinity!
It shutters the very maze of my primitive butter.
God reduction to a construct, lapless father when laps
are it.
Our seized ocean is an Existentialist,
A moist, vast Rasputin, and also a zombie.
Know that it was from water’s chassis where the
first executioner was coaxed,
Giving us the devil stencil, single celled.
Moody black cowl of violent liquid,
Overfed mitotic lake, unsavory soup,
Titanic black cape,
Aiding and abetting hyperglandular scaled things,
Half mad with tongues,
Straddlers on the Biological Checklist,
Is it alive? Am I?
I, such a radically disparate epidermal dummy,
Our lady of the three ears, one an aborigine prosthesis,
two of Southern peach,
Maracas for pits of uncomfortably animate magma,
All three slim, dejected chins in a better life.
I make such wild claims in my yearning for that
seasonless place.
There are no odes in alien journalism.
Fins weren’t built for intimacy
The Great Healer
A horse, in ochre discourse with the oat,
Hoofs plucking at the infinite instrument of sunlight,
Gnashing down the earth to plaits of beaten gold,
Weaving understudied teeth of wheat in our epoch’s humility.
Laude the orchard, impermenant pastels sedately ruffling,
Donated to the charity of summer’s naked plums,
For purchase of their purple slips, to buy them shame,
And manners.
No high-strung piglet emoting in these channels,
Awash with a pale riot, the holiest ghost,
Shoe polish, fire--
Immaculate petticoats of Sunday’s burning white magnolia,
Ambitious as cream to clabber to seafoam.
Threadbare camels are
The pregnant mountains ruminating velvet hush,
Heaped in the sweaty clefts of the world’s mind,
The papaya of your flesh,
By which the ancient horses bit.
Proxy muscles of the hemisphere
Circumscribe the river’s drum-tight skin,
And haloed far below
To girdle the water’s under soul with its tropic,
Exciting the scorpion whip.
Canned Jesus On Toast
Hanging like tongues of Kali,
Beggar’s paint in nude ribbons on cubes with
frustrated roofs,
Homely rainbows hatched by cataracts,
These architects were clinically depressed,
Or else Puritans performing penitence,
They dressed goats, pigs in modest clothes.
What gall the achromatic square misers have,
bruising soft tissues with relentless geometry,
He struts his meager windows like dew,
Arrogance gone glass in first sun’s rays,
Too lockjawed for seraphim to slide their
brightness past,
Light that doesn’t fall from the death of outer
space, domicile of time,
Radiance candles it stars from aneath the molten
crust, the frank, uncelestial hills.
I deplore your paranoia, citizens against Pagan
inertia.
Jealous girlfriend, stern mother, who is father?
The point-five child, ever leaner. Everybody
quarantined.
Cannibal abdomen, your caustic parlor digests
dwellers in your drywall,
Leaving KGB eyeballs to periscope, unincor-
porated, in Venetian cracks,
At the door jamb, with a chain eyebrow.
Bad episode of slacks, tired, weepy heads, you’re
a regular drum muffler,
Canned Jesus on toast, family. Family of tubers at
the last Breakfast.
Rebutting Chinese ornament, the faint of Victoriana,
Spaniard blackbird grace, cow half-tones in black
and white,
Spurning palm fronds, dung, organic intercourse,
Your quadrangle does a dull Flamenco.
The same durable, flame-proof fabric as a
straitjacket,
Flags make their claim, “This is America!!!”
Were begonias all you could think of?
Spikeless is my love, my cinnamon-fern
complected master,
Centurion oaks are wild nerves of frozen
electricity,
Groves over my epitaph of birdsong. |