Cut by the Wind
The Adirondacks in Spring
A man gets out of the cold water shivering,
the low noise of his inept attempt at thanking his rescuers
nearly inaudible, his lips purple, swollen
proportionately troubled by his inability to express
just how cold he really was:
“ohgodgoodthinggettingoutthatguygrabbedmebeforeiwasacube
holyshitihopehedidntcatchacoldhopehedidntdontlosethatflintholyfckimfrzzzzzzzzing”, still shivering:
“opiateopponentproponentportentplatonicpoetpropellant
postulatepotentpostponementpelletpurplereppelent”,
indescribably and inscrutably hypothermic,
hehuddlesclosenospacebetweenhimandtheheat
Noahdontthinkso
What does it mean “space is our future”
what about contraction
What about shrinkage, is it true
what they say about the ocean?
What would it mean to be nameless?
Would we all be one
in sameness, would you, you
there - the one spelling it out oddly
were they to shake up your moniker
and the alias your existence goes by
= what flight of fate might
your pseudonym therefore fling you?
What buckyball, clusterfucked
fractal of a linguistic knife that lay sliced up in you
would breathe through its own wounding mechanism
its ripeness an au juis, some night time venue
letting you tell the simple story of black and blue?
Soon everything uttered becomes viral
out and about and into the injured world
it’s elbow snapping like the 11th dimension
just for the sake of helping you understand
“Who are you what does your name mean?”
How do you pronounce it?
*
The amplitude, the sign waive of society
the altitude of the newly discovered
ark atop the mountain
the fountain of youth, the uncouth demeanor of waking dreamers
checking between the birches and milk cartons for lost carvings
names worn invisible by time, what rhyme might one spring upon
to sign the signal, smokeless chatterboxing of the mirror
marauding and mocking you, meekly describing to yourself and others
sling theory and the quantum of lost ligament - a figment of nothing,
the stigma of knowing you might be the etymological genome of grandfather time
you there - would you still have a meaning if you did not have a name?
The "Truth"
Somewhere after reading a letter he wrote his invisible child
A poet steps off stage without giving his name
A child again
Not knowing his name until someone spoke it to him
A girl his age, speechless, her hair as ivory as the Bakersfield sun
Suggesting he describe her hands next
As they collaborate the next line
Invisibly, as open as children addressing the unknown
Alone again later, he says her name aloud
Writes it on a wall, both sides so as to inhibit the barrier
between the interior and the exterior
superior to all words
love hovered over them
untouched
settling in with every syllable.
Dribbletheballballadbaldbanditbrawl
The game on television is full of them -
meanings boxed in by how much they score
tipped over by the weight of their own inequities
the shore regurgitating the darkness
in our hearts - each flattened
rainbow a force-fed residue
on the surface, lost revenue
lapping along the peninsula
a retinue of fiends following
some unlucky leprechaun
caught in the lake of fire ,
I suppose the same
happens in any game
There Are No Ideas but in Things
The quail sqwalking
low to the ground
groveling because it cannot reach
the height of the hen
holy wire fence
the only thing holding them back from the horizon;
and doubt.
~
A man gets out of the cold water shivering,
the low noise of his inept attempt at thanking his rescuers
nearly inaudible, his lips purple, swollen
proportionately troubled by his inability to express
just how cold he really was:
“ohgodgoodthinggettingoutthatguygrabbedmebeforeiwasacube
holyshitihopehedidntcatchacoldhopehedidntdontlosethatflintholyfckimfrzzzzzzzzing”, still shivering:
“opiateopponentproponentportentplatonicpoetpropellant
postulatepotentpostponementpelletpurplereppelent”,
indescribably and inscrutably hypothermic,
hehuddlesclosenospacebetweenhimandtheheat
Noahdontthinkso
What does it mean “space is our future”
what about contraction
What about shrinkage, is it true
what they say about the ocean?
What would it mean to be nameless?
Would we all be one
in sameness, would you, you
there - the one spelling it out oddly
were they to shake up your moniker
and the alias your existence goes by
= what flight of fate might
your pseudonym therefore fling you?
What buckyball, clusterfucked
fractal of a linguistic knife that lay sliced up in you
would breathe through its own wounding mechanism
its ripeness an au juis, some night time venue
letting you tell the simple story of black and blue?
Soon everything uttered becomes viral
out and about and into the injured world
it’s elbow snapping like the 11th dimension
just for the sake of helping you understand
“Who are you what does your name mean?”
How do you pronounce it?
*
The amplitude, the sign waive of society
the altitude of the newly discovered
ark atop the mountain
the fountain of youth, the uncouth demeanor of waking dreamers
checking between the birches and milk cartons for lost carvings
names worn invisible by time, what rhyme might one spring upon
to sign the signal, smokeless chatterboxing of the mirror
marauding and mocking you, meekly describing to yourself and others
sling theory and the quantum of lost ligament - a figment of nothing,
the stigma of knowing you might be the etymological genome of grandfather time
you there - would you still have a meaning if you did not have a name?
The "Truth"
Somewhere after reading a letter he wrote his invisible child
A poet steps off stage without giving his name
A child again
Not knowing his name until someone spoke it to him
A girl his age, speechless, her hair as ivory as the Bakersfield sun
Suggesting he describe her hands next
As they collaborate the next line
Invisibly, as open as children addressing the unknown
Alone again later, he says her name aloud
Writes it on a wall, both sides so as to inhibit the barrier
between the interior and the exterior
superior to all words
love hovered over them
untouched
settling in with every syllable.
Dribbletheballballadbaldbanditbrawl
The game on television is full of them -
meanings boxed in by how much they score
tipped over by the weight of their own inequities
the shore regurgitating the darkness
in our hearts - each flattened
rainbow a force-fed residue
on the surface, lost revenue
lapping along the peninsula
a retinue of fiends following
some unlucky leprechaun
caught in the lake of fire ,
I suppose the same
happens in any game
There Are No Ideas but in Things
The quail sqwalking
low to the ground
groveling because it cannot reach
the height of the hen
holy wire fence
the only thing holding them back from the horizon;
and doubt.
~