Frisked at customs...sphere-d Muzak...
upped and away...rife, with non address.
Photonic personification...perceptible, yet...
imperceptible gestures Godspeed-ed--
sheer forgetfulness...the genius of remembrance--
Expiration Dates.

a jittering small white feather

set to the tip of a branch.

seen through the derelict watch

of unclean windows.

the tractionless, extra light scratches

of a waterbug on the wooden floor.

the monstrous ingression of traffic

heard in a truck's gasp-growl.

all beholders see beauty now--

in an eyeball.

the gods were entertaining, there it was

like a mint after an imperial feast.

with more presence than a whole body.

it can blink once for yes, & twice for no--

if only to break up omniscience.

it is swaddled in mulbery silk, that

creases complexity smoothened to

simplicity & back again, as in a wakeful

sleep.

a gift placed in a self-luminous white box,

more benevolently pensive than milk.

whose fourfold hatch will unbox, to see

what was seen in it.

could you love an eyeball?

as this building

tells 18 stories

to itself, I'm taken

by eyes underlined

by masks.

people I've seen in

their element of home

across stretches of time.

the rest of their faces

are boxed out by windows.

I'm seeing so much more

of them lately, as they stare

out.

huffing through a bluish veil,

decrying the intelligence

of biology.

the moon's fail-stop of reinvention

leaves her an amnesiac.

chipping away at her goldenly drawn

rim of remembrance, as if a China

plate.

holding a full serving of curdling milk.

as the non visible bones

that shape skin--the solitude

of a mountain chain.

spared from the polite aversion

of eyes, tight-lipped kisses on the

recesses of cheeks.

broad as the forehead's contemplative

point of no return--the mind eyed

of its own.

our getting on staggers off, pregnant

with a series of blows that space

maintains.

leaning on aberrated projections, a fatigue

of personal worlds.

stars crust as their facsimiles

bleed through,

twinkling halls of mirrors.

both blind and unblind to the

same reflection--stones warming

to serpents.

all the lights left on, backed by all

the lights left off...

an elderly woman on the upper east side

leaves a red ring around a baby carrot

while gnoshing.

imagining Matisse cutting up fauve

confetti in his wheelchair, while he rolls

backward on a promenade.

then she lazily gropes at her neck,

observing a touristy swash--primed for

the annual rigging of Newtonian physics.

imagine hearing

your favorite song

among inharmonious

company.

as the vibes play themselves.

on repeat, but remain

loyal to their favorite song.

when there is One.

suffused movie screens

separating silver from

shadows.

simultaneous sequences

quivering free--glinting

proterozoic slime, competing

takes at first light.

never seen the same way

again by its hovering void.

itself being vacuumed into

a featureless film reel.

how mouthy--

& hellbent a month

becomes, in standout

pronunciation.

(despite regional exaction).

consult all other eleven

months--with your tongue.

this one wants you to taste

the winter it overcomes.

into ides.

as shoots noodle outta

Roman baby steps.

Da Vinci's thrice-grace

inkage, of a likened

fetal-pod.

supplanted in care

of a belly.

overly still with the

behavior of pain.

readying for this world.

Fictional characters never earn their

end--which's to say being killed off by

their author.

I know because I have set about to ****

off my own fictional character--who has

earned his end.

Suicide would be too literal, he's rather

literary.

I'm sorry Mr. Bloom, Shakespeare did

not invent the human being--he survived

his characters, not himself.

Phenomenal progress has been made, by

virtue of this being written.

You see--he's not transparent, nor is he an

open book, yet he tells me what I look

like.

The one that sees through him at all cost.

As if an entire jail population reached

thru bars to mirror other inmates.

Who could contend with so many

features?

Changing with every thought &

interaction--his slow death is natural, it

cannot be hastened.

It's more accurate to say that this fictional

character is dying, even when no one is

reading.

It was during a frenzy of  being written

while writing, that the two were

authentically enjoined.

To this might I add, the throes of death

are not dead.

it's this film viewer's obsession, this film

viewer's established meditation--what

was captured before his birth.

when film entered into a covenant with

consciousness--the dream became lucid.

immortality is no longer a leap of faith,

corporeality is what makes cameos--not

the viewer.

I Am acutely drawn into footage

before my birth--i look for myself & am

everywhere.

somehow more familiar than myself,

then wonder if i was out there as

someone.

swept into colored footage of Manhattan's

bustle one hundred years ago, how its

pace bursts through slowed fluxes--where

all film is posthumous.

one would have to view nothing but one

frame lapsing into another, & still miss

its breadth.

how can one view film with

consciousness & not see through it all?

one can't be sure how much
transfigurement occurs during sleep.
how often a straight line fudges a crooked
line, so: a/b/c can sequentially light up.
three yesterdays ago today--a legless
Daddy-long-legs was pulled across the
floorboards of my head.
in response to the banging vacuum of
wakefulness.
as a bedroom window isolates what will
be uniformities of rain--shower (cut!),
shower (cut!), shower (cut!)...with a finale
of steadiness?

Diane Arbus

purposely mismatched

inside out eyes.

finding no fault.

staring out of rooms.

breathing in mold

deep enough to peel

the paint off their walls.

unwilling to condemn

a solitary thing.