You want to be a bringer
You want to bring something
You want to bring it to the people
No, you change your solemn mind
You want to bring it to the animals
This is a wise, a tactical swerve
Nothing may be brought to the brightness of people
That is the miracle of death
You can bring things to the animal
And you can bring things to the animal inside the people
They can eat and absorb things
If they are interested, they will chew
But the person itself
It is an impermeable membrane
It’s a different kind of will
It’s like a mouth of rust eating and talking at the same time
Here is a child wanting a pool back
wanting all the poetry books at once She is
She is not fever-rich
She juts out into the world so her hand
any may safely explode
as a nature
She can’t buy all the poetry books
She has a different kind of money
She is a strider Admire her
So she goes with all the trees All hold their arms
high open to the freezing cold matters
in the thing called a woods
She but no longer a girl
She walks between them All the insane openness
of the arms A cold bitter
A martini of cold
With an olive of colder
It is a madness of the trees
God, the earth is a mattress
and nothing more
The stones are barefoot
The stones are homeless too
Owing is not what they do
Why are we doing?
A translator arrived
But the moment didn’t want hurt
Nor the water that descended it
Its stones feared us
But the fearful stones
They governed us
As the English did India
As we did everywhere else
“Enough enlightenment for all times!”
Say the stones, which are as cars
They drive themselves everywhere
Eventually, space translates them back
In the end, we seek their forgiveness
The stones their vanity
We didn’t understand them
We dressed them in clothes
Here I am explaining water,
here I am talking you blue.
Why, I might be making a photograph
with my words! Let me draw
you a picture. It is insane
to presume a wave
or blue, or wavelet
even. Let the concept
sting me like a wasp
until I feel its coronet,
of an eyelet
on a crown
it flits through.
They said you missed out on so much being the way you are. They said it without punctuation like that and so it will go. On. Without punctuation. Not the way a life is when someone stops on the stairs merely to be aware they are stopping on the stairs. Shall we address Gertrude Stein from here?
This painting is a solid color and is uterine.
They said that but whether they addressed me or not might be irrelevant if I took it to heart, to the place underneath this potted plant. And that cop standing next to it. The truth is they were talking to someone else and I overheard and it was suddenly addressed to me as though I were the someone else on the p.a. they did not actually address, but talk about behind her back, as people generally do, because language only exists behind backs, everywhere, really, this is true. There is nowhere to say anything that is not behind many, many backs. That poems exist is proof of this fact. They are so far behind all human backs it is ridiculous.
I was putting cheese on my grilled cheese at the time, middle of the night, and my hands were freezing, they were just ice, and I imagined a tumor in a place in my shoulder, I had to check, but the hands were a misery, a punishment, a cold of Inquisition (they didn’t use only fire; think), iciness of a surgical x-ray table you have to lay on, just get it done, verify there is no tumor, flip the grilled cheese sandwich, discard thoughts of vice, remember that the second side always browns exponentially (existentially) faster (it’s like a second marriage). Don’t make the same mistake again and flip the sandwich, did, it is now on the plate and who were they (we) talking about, the ghosts in love with criticism of others? ghosts on stairs? Let me open up the melt of the sandwich and add a fresh slice of tomato, but salt it first, like memory, salt the slug of the world. Get down into the dissolution of the salt in a flavor. You can’t hold it anymore. That red pulpy thing. The salt and the tomato are inseparable like beach and skyline on a perfect day. The festering voices go past like countless buses and you must learn to sit and knit inside them. You are not young enough to die on a ledge anymore.
You are getting divorced.
Farewell, Congratulations, Welcome Home.
Here, affect this balaclava.
So you put a large bouquet
of pink daisies in a window of full sun.
The daisies are innocent in pinkness,
there are not enough of them,
so tall and wide is the vase.
It is clear crystal, a bellowing
of a bell of tuba mouth,
but only a lip of glass
to support what it’s saying,
or almost so, in being there.
But it is svelte as the heart
of all glass, the desire
to just be silvered, become
a mirror, be done with it.
At least, you think, there is
no ridiculous, portentous
sound such as comes
from a euphonious brass
as morose as that one
can only be, at its orchestral best.
The vase is frugal IKEA,
so let’s intuit a purity of intent,
a touch of the mind of Sweden.
These pink daisies support you
as the sun supports them
now on the stone windowsill
that overlooks the living below,
though the flowers are dead.
Well, not yet. But soon.
Though they are dead,
they sing a sun’s praises,
all the pink daisies,
because the stems they have
would have them finish
what it is they had begun,
and are still quietly drinking,
whatever it is there you give them,
water and an aspirin,
maybe a place to reflect their pinkness,
the city window directly before the units of their faces.
a face that was facts of cheese
and cheese like
until reason lets go
just sit before windows
a weird cloud:
head like cheese
full of cavities
of egalitarian regrets
so we go
to primitive ghost
on an arm
I see the thorns on your elbows
those strange clawed gloves you wear
A tree in the wild forest
wakes as in a dream to threaten
its neighbor tree with dyslexic fate:
“I will make an ex-maple of you.”
I am soaking in a kind of solution
like a world. A kind of “I” is soaking,
doing something like, in a sort of world
of likeness. A world made up of likenesses
that talk among themselves. A likeness world.
How alike I am is just how real. I am soaking
in a kind of solution like words. The words
are there, but there is something more. That jelly
of besides might be the real thing. But I can only
cipher it, race towards it through more liquid doors
of liquid likenesses. Every time I think of the world, a fissure
occurs between me and it. I’m multiplied. I’m more words,
protoplasm. I ooze towards the truth and some part of me
that broke off might get there. But it will never know
that some thing like me started the process. The memory
that goes forth is only a simulacrum of a self,
and it finds my primitive speech something extraneous
to my animal, something to forget. I am on equal
footing with the pseudopodia of the amoeba
when it comes to the inner writer’s opinion of me:
“tl;dr” said the DNA to the organism.