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Monthly Archives: July 2010
155
The metallic roar has turned into wind,and the moisture is now a path of phlegmwhich thickens in the throat, so parched and thinnedby the smoke-eaten drips that flood the brim:The crisp felt hat that is dipped in the pond to fend off the bears fro… Continue reading
154
I only dig in crates when I have to,but the mossy stench invigorates mefrom eye to eye, as treason and graft doin the souls of this nation that hates me:The past emanates in portions, parcels of lightness and dust that rinse the sea floor,uncoveri… Continue reading
153
The open heart cannot fathom its ownclosed off like a dream to the awakenedsoul whom pressures of pragmatics have shownto slide, swift, from the somnolence, weakened:The open heart, thus, wraps around itself a bandanna of blue and white paisley,to… Continue reading
152
There was a taste of honey on the tongue punctured last week by the supple forcepswith two diamond tips, and my iron lung banged out like a graph scattered with rosehips: True intentions bulge in the summer flangelike intestines coiled out in a ro… Continue reading
151
Moving forward toward a New Principle,the space swells across the bloated stomachas the crisis, the most arcane riddle,of our blank vision in this New Epoch;The angles are opposed, and the Angles deposed by the hungry hordes of bright coinsthat cl… Continue reading
Third World Rhyme, I
Note: After lying hidden under my dresser for about 3 years, I stumbled upon a typed version of my original “Third World Rhyme,” which was originally written on a napkin in red ink–which quickly seeped into every cranny of the “page” making it a … Continue reading
150
“You have to comb the infield to do it,”that’s what the colonizer told the men;What a strange position, from which I sit!I maintain the interests of the oxen:Fields, segadors, nationhoods under lights, with flies wafting on high and dreams on low;… Continue reading
149
Metallic shards flood your senses tonight for the last time, maybe ever, maybe forever. It’s hard to say which is right, between the left hook and the meat cleaver: The spin on your mouthpiece is fierce like shards, scraping the pink toes of giant… Continue reading
148
My memories of blindness are immense like the loss of the little ants I’d track or the specific taste of brown mouth rinse – fresh near-vomit every night, off the rack: I never thought I’d think clearly again, but the monotonous rain has spoken, b… Continue reading
147
Be careful because control is a maze that bores intruders into a raw lull, reducing their worldliness to a phase in a bloody sojourn to spite the Bull: Meaning lacks finishing from loose grammars, and the webs they spin are more like cocoons— ridi… Continue reading
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