THE SWIM
Dedicated to Poetry at the Literary Cafe, in memory of the magic wrought by Steve Goldberg & Nick Traenkner as hosts
Stochastic resonance,
SNR. Serendipity,
unfortunate minefields.
Elation, confusion.
Fluency, prudency.
Don’t look back,
babble on.
Signs and symbols
facilitate transplantation–
they are spells:
go here, take care,
stop there.
The anonymity
of the head,
the brain capsule,
a jail,
a cameo in moonlight,
bones in the wellwater.
Be real.
Dissolve yourself
on TV.
Integrity
in self loathing.
Expose yourself
severely,
explode
the world view.
Cannibalize yourself.
*Show* society.
Music
manufactures yearning
sans object.
Music
like a cowboy junkie
pulled into longing
on tunnel of
highway commute.
Ownership
is slavery everywhere.
Money
spreads over distance.
Options include
flinging your bucket
to the moon,
a tree squirrel lost
in the desert.
The commute
is an interior one.
The drone
is a mantra.
I’m a skeptic
of frantic suspension,
of obfuscated animatedness,
elite
intelligence.
Eat
your sense of specialness.
Eat
and be easy,
walk
and be free!
The cliff.
Brain without pain
into total sensory
stimulation,
annihilate thought.
Be an uncredentialed
you, a gentle you.
Sheriff’s badges hurt.
Hurdles hurt.
May hurdles be blissful
and easy.
Worry
is the crux
of the lever
used to destroy
myself,
an internal machine
of twisted mirror.
There’s always
a way through.
Ignorance
can grease a path.
Actions
are taken in
faith
that something
is true
and the assumed structure
emerges
like a beautiful circus tent
sustained by fools.
There’s a metaphysical
spaceship,
a perspective
with self loft,
a boot strap
anti-gravity
ease machine.
It operates
on moment by moment
pebbles
without thought
to grease.
The buoyancy
that carried me
here
will carry me
there.
Sometimes
when I look at you
I don’t see
your head;
an idea
is superimposed.
Gettin in the hole,
gettin in the hole.
Laying out lines
like a beautiful disaster
in American Standard English.
Certified confession
of culpability.
Getting it all out
is not sublime,
but crime. Complete
deniability
on multiple levels.
Those we do no harm.
We charm
new beach,
new wave.
We talk
and it is a
manufacturing.
We go to bed,
we dream,
we drown.
Fires of imagining,
sand in vacuum.
Waiting
in the interstitial
for tomorrow’s
ritual. The
incidental rawnesss
of time to oneself.
Now you see it,
now you don’t
messages, miracles
and madness.
Damned restraint.
Policies
for happiness
management.
The capacity
for wingless flight.
Reagan fired
the traffic controllers.
Ayn Rand
begat Alan Greenspan.
Zombies
are a metaphor
for the way
the have nots
distance themselves
from
the have nots.
Mouths
are sphincters too.
Hallowed happenstances.
Protecting
the Empire
from the hubris
of youth.
The monkeys on my back
are abstract.
One sidedness
exhausts
like Charlie Chaplain
fumbling an umbrella
collapsed in wind
or
the sonata pathetique
on a sail,
shredded in storm.
Why ain’t Beethoven
a woman?
Kill the muse.
Imagine,
the artist as a woman,
an object
dragging pretentious
affectations,
avant garde
stylized curliques,
cigarette plumes
gathered up in
ampersands.
Juxtapositions
extrapolate data sets.
Adam Smith’s magic hand,
a rare-bit
pulled
out of the vacuum.
Carbonation in soda
hurt my mouth, particles
popping
into and out of existence
like crackle rocks,
like curvature froths
at the tiniest
resolvable corners
of a fjord.
I drank it anyway,
a regular alice
in wonderland.
I ate
the low hanging globes
of technicolor concepts.
Disagreement
is fanciful lattice
for a rose.
I want to unfold
the wrapping,
but the wrapping
is what I felt.
Intangible particulars
like dusting
for fingers.
Why do we attach?
I wish
I were a leaf
or a cricket.
Or a bird.
Or maybe a stone.
Sometimes
I imagine
I’m a turtle
watching a movie,
or a clone of myself
on a mission for myself.
I am trying
to be a more perfect
clone,
more perfect
than the human within.
Breakfast of champions,
I collapse to abstractions.
All I want
is to think
and stink.
It would be nice
were I effortlessly
beautiful.
I’ll set the nanobots
to task.
The nanobots
will fix
everything, and then
we can fold it up
and put it away.
Don’t forget
to take your tabbouleh
to the future.
Lady K
wow! too much to absolve in one sitting. i like this one very much…
Thank you.