Teeny tiny hands let it be--

between

the furniture & music of a piano,

It

developes the taste for a certain

texture.

How relatable.

As frequencies turn my beard into

dancing flies.

It comes into focus...

another absentminded midwife

wearing a cupid arrow headband,

loses balance.

As a body of water sweeps away

broken glass.

The way things point out that there's

nothing there--there's really nothing

there.

While the depth & duration of that

nothing is saved, when we come back

from It.

Midwifed by the nearest thing you

could poke.

poetry has its

native tongue, but

receives poor translation

in other countries.

which did not have

the word for the meaning.

all rights reserved...

"Beau Is Afraid".

Ari Aster's idiosyncratic

interpolation,

of: "Hereditary".

writer/filmmaker.

who spoke of its gestational

period (in an interview).

ninth to the month.

immuring a pop up watchtower.

unbricking shapely shadows,

that refuse to puzzle over

the downtime of words.

what if variability,
secondhandedness of perception--
captured the significance of crossing
paths with another animal.
at home.
where food & shelter play nice.
above all else, heir to what's human--
above all else.
more ingenious than a one-to-one basis,
as what stands in place of what stands
in place.
produces masterful portraitures--of what
also stands in place of what stands in place.

His brooding excellency stepped outside

with a ladle, just so he could declare:

'It's not ready yet!'

The finicky pottage of 718, that is.

One is tempted to take up Joe Gould's:

"The Oral History of Our Time".

It would be a lot like William Burroughs'

cut-up method, but in a colloquial sense.

Judging by the sheer volume of gossip, it

stands to reason that gossipers will

assuredly gossip about one another.

Probably to the same people they

gossiped about, I should like to think

that such plot-driven dialogue could

get lost in elevation.

Where does indeed collateral damage go?

You couldn't have known that I digress,

I digress.

I'd like to say that I'm brimming with

Amor fati.

I don't need a record to have grooves, to

appreciate the music.

This sound is as warm as it gets--meaning

closest to.

A splash of ***** on a curb, a bus stop

window clearly replaceable, four blades

of grass & a future spore.

A needle catches a groove, steaming

broth is forced to gather round.

there are no precursory glances

when powder-puffs of lime are

thrown against an expired wind.

scolded for the fifth time--for not

vowing ether.

as matrimonial frills wrap around

solved bones.

undivided as houses sealed shut,

where karma ensures everyone has

dinner together.

as torrents outgrow

their own hands,

frothy-white.

stones go at their

turning, to compel

the force of the rush.

as a mending man

made yogi, joins his

hands together.

As zeptoseconds strike
their matchsticks against brick
walls, the pith of this waxy
body gleams.
Stiffly unsound in its granting,
vitally huffing its gangly ghost.
As heavy in sound as the weight
of the world unmoved, trying
the vault of heaven.
Scaring birds across the parables
of clouds, eyefuls are swept away
by closed lids.
Wedged between dreams to ooze honey
fuzzy from the bee's buzz.
Of freshly aired confessions
that pre-box their black, after
violently shaking the perfume from
flowers to place upon.

there were preparatory notes
looping an alleyway
wind's pipe dream...pages
of your hometown's paper
blowing heedlessly on your
birthday.

Earphones can conjunct like wrong

planets--isolating a soulless listener.

Forced to hear dissonance, noise plugs

that give what they get.

Awkwardly excreting too much

information, owned by goodliness.

The whole bus reacts as if something

is passing through.

Music's ****** paralysis, at harmonious

odds--prohibited flight.

The stank roots one puts down when

caught, the sorriest excuse for being.

Music doesn't play to everyone, just

because they press play.

It knows whose listening.

There where I was told not

to go alone.

I became the probity of light.

Dark spots & the gnashing

of teeth.

Smiles at a different angle.

The forefront at my back.

Absolutely lost in what I stand

to Know--I will tell all.

Starting with the first person

I See--myself.

down the main aisles of a movie theater,
cranial malformations of popcorn are
crushed.
the brittle knockabouts of a cannibal's
unstrung necklace--left to the ritualized
red of Hollywood's carpet.
the flashlight of a theater attendant stretches
out its beam, to pinned concentrations.
just as the movie screen becomes the bubbling,
gaping hole of burnt film.
the projector let through, flickering back its raw
form.

Zeus, your predilection for banishing Titans to Hades...
anathema of them--revolt was theirs of you...Titanomachy.
Enter Prometheus, second generational Titan, brother
to Atlas--Prometheus of whom Titan revolt at first ran
no fire through his veins.
Thus, Zeus was well pleased and employed Prometheus
to put earth to water, water to earth...as to yield man.
As so man was, and was unto Prometheus...a fondness
entered him of them.
And in of passion Prometheus' veins were run through
with fire...fire fought fire--thus Prometheus reached out
taking hold Zeus' lightning.
Hid in a hollowed fennel stalk, to be bequeathed unto man.
Torrents of fire now ran Prometheus' veins, and in a fit of
infamous mockery presented Zeus with two packets of
slaughtered animal parts.
A hubris was born in Prometheus that being so halved
God-man gave itself fully to that polarity...he gawked at
Zeus and bade him choose between the two packets.
One of ox meat and innards coated in stomach lining, the
other of ox-bones coated in its own abundant fat.
Thus Zeus chose, the wretched lesser of the two...
inconsumable ox-bones coated by fat.
A charged and terrible air cut and heavied all direction,
pointing assuredly that Zeus was one given over to the
surface of things, a psychological casualty of his own
vanity.
Zeus overcome with Prometheus' disaffection for the God
of him struck at Prometheus' family.
At length, this assault could not, would not put asunder
Prometheus from the ground he stood.
A certain Haphaestus was summoned by Zeus...whose
directive was writ in torment.
Chain Prometheus to Mount Caucasus...where from on
high a sackcloth cloud shall shake loose an eagle, whose
homing hunger shall have only a taste for Prometheus' liver.
Day in, and day out, that accursed ***** shall be the
bounty of itself!

light rinses her hair on a taxidermic
dove, sat like wooden wavicles on a
shadow planet.
persued by a scented black candle that
smells of unfillable holes.
as a woman prospects a circumference,
tells herself she came for the music--
not the food.
an angel born of mistaken identity,
walks through the blueprint of a garden--
& is told: 'you didn't touch a thing.'
as with the involution of ears, spirals
whistle like rope thru snake skin.
an evil repellent of sorts, or a courtesy
to superstition.

ice too is structured, I have witnessed its
appalling unbrokeness for longer than I
care to recall.
as with the guiding principles of
silverware, conversation should follow.
any misapplication would be as rude as
one cut off midsentence.
the mark of polite society is cultivated facade without imposition, hitchless
ritualism.
****** muscles uncramped of miseries,
poise is how stock is measured.
yet there's Michelangelo's: David, even
more poised with his pecker's forbidden
talking point.
tonight we exchange the currency of one
year for another--as the fog goes about its
yellow life.
no yellower than these so tight-lipped
about teeth.
the first time it happened, tobacco smoke
stratified layers of breath, cologne & perfume--letting fall delinquent unwash.
they all spoke at once, their features grew till they were competing panoramas.
as if they continually crawled out & came
for me with their airless truths.
how I learned to see with one eye, use the
opposite hand natural to me, balance on
one foot--to disalign with their choreography.
I increased that split second, I lingered upon it, caught others stitch a seam.
I saw the easeful converse of skulls make
stark headway, stiffly tolerant of arms left
raised in toasts.
the polished hatred of servants complimentary with movement & stationariness.
fool, martyr, poet--isolate any of the above & I will be indistinguishable from them.
it is I who lowered my guard, not they--throwing my nerves into the pools of impregnable circles.
hard at the art of hearsay, a one to one with a King--one with no dynastic
trickledown.
I drank from that chalice on New Years Eve--white flannel trousers rolled up.
masticated peach in my stomach, my ankles cuffed by a shoreline's puzzle piece.
splashed in the face by a mermaid's tail,
as to revive me from an undreamt year.

the whiff of a prize pig on a

dank, misty morning--corn stuck

in your teeth.

let us make a shroud of that mist

as your intent, minus mystery.

the pudge of situatedness superseding

promises.

squeals of self-love slobbering on

squeals of self-hatred, the later

should be your siphoning state.

dis-gus-ting...

Miraculousness without incident

garners suspicion.

As if the ordinary leaves something

out--of course it doesn't.

Nonevents are interested parties.

Which translate to cogito's media

circuis, bringing in a sleepwalker

for questioning.

Not quite with a suit jacket over their

head, but more like hapless self-escort.

The way they're put together doesn't

track, because they're not in love with

the heartache that puts it together.

A sleepwalker is only a sleepwalker if

at the end of the walk, they don't punch

the radio dial forgotten on full blast.

Which's to say all the innocuous detail

becomes a painful recap of creative

correspondence.

At every turn it's: What do you make of

it?

How not.

emotions drift away

as broken continents...

seedling stars buried

in their soil.

that will rise as the

puppetry of deities.