Inconsequence
In a cheap hotel I meditate this
To return under the drop ceiling
In the nowgarland of lucid dreamers
To see the end from the false beginning
As every day is felt in that first moment
In timbre and tone and mood and heat
And I wish I were wrong in this knowing
To not have that compact seed on my brow
To not wait in these hard seasons of drilling
The descending tone of dull inconsequence
Or the lonely index of bartered skin touch
A review of carpet spectra and faucet drip
Or the pennant shadows of dakota parking
When I started in my saturation of nudes
Masquerading life story in arcs of roomgrass
The Adventures
I miss the drugs and the women.
Neither of them mine or would be.
Just a visitation to the laundromat
where I would bring her local sushi
after reading Miller at the library
or coming angled into the condom
of the room tightened we shared
and she could always smell my time.
Vast evacuations of those treelines
which held the curved black wire
and telephone poles like new cacti
to stand in the blue burning candy
of their evening smoke and gossip
when it was still possible not to fail
and to have great linguistic adventures
but I only gathered the isolated nation
incestuous in deluded world readings
and lost in dogmatic silver falsehood
carved beautifully into slave lacquer.
The Arch Mnemosyne
Oleander in the structured darkness
Coma child on the tablet of wine
And the tree is a very slow explosion
From the black bread of the prayer
To the east of the fallow regression
To never have what is attained
In all the epochs of emotive tissue
I adhered to like a weak animal
Shaking in the highway distortion
Of what will never be flowered
They did try to warn me and to call
But I was subservient to inertia
I remained afraid of the world
In a long avenue of mythology
To hide myself in the soft error
Just a rotational game of pleasure
Which put me in those rooms
For the image is a strobe of water
In the sacral of the world cave
A ladder to distended mornings
I was simply trying to escape
By burning the floor with stillness
Rummaging for the fetid alms
Like a fawn for lost money and toy
To make one city for my disdain
To make one city of my origin
As if a campfire room in each polity
Waiting for me to warp the shadow
Urged by the complete blue magnetism
And to rehearse hatred for every beginning
The Bookbinders
Hoarding dry wallpaper like sacred parchment
To wait for the thunder of the storm without rain
Salamanders in the pile of counting machines
Like the hidden bookbinders of Athens and Hilo
Waiting for a message that will leave me again
As phantasmal as the hope I had for the high city
Only to track myself in the glass of empty malls
Remembering the burning resin of that blue bowl
We used in the night park or the deck of a parent
To finally concede that you cannot live like them
That you wanted the sweating bottle of their wine
But instead to hold the gradient of housing material
Or the starched weeds of the end of the gravel lots
Breaking the arms of light from the terminus lamps
To make eyelashes in the derelict open mansion
Where the white foxes run the overthrown garden
And I shuffle nude on the balcony and the terrace
To feed the door and the cats and the night puma
Presiding over my resurrection of the normal guide
Arca Real
The crystalline patterns in prime numbers
have defaced the vortex pattern of Charon
as she admires her own body with both hands
after the cold rum through the metal straw.
The spiritual practice will change the blood
as I appear ten years younger in the image
and when we make love I want you to have
your five senses, arca real, a torch in the dark hill
that makes a bowl of the city cut by orange nets
and how long have you really been alive, how
astute is the room of low dark tables, the salsa
and the sudden drunk in the call of vehicles
as the memory is reinstated, the book I wanted
appears right there on the shelf, 222 in the notch
of her neck, burn fluid for the morning of sage
as I veer among the gates of the intersection
or the scribbled letters to the valley of the butterflies
where she stood in the tall wildflower, in tight pants
to make a bright emblem of youth and its hectic
catalogue of attainments, a vanishing past the hard
laying of the cubic stone, in our mythology of pace
in the dream of a reunited family in some dirt lot
where I was just grudging that day, that element
of slant and scope down the scan of lonesome roads
or just beaming and sitting at the glare on the peak.
The Blue Lands
When the shadow and reflection unite
Against a white granite of remembrance
And the morning of calling the water baby.
What good is a god if you cannot speak to it.
Or catalogue the black tanks on the roof.
You must allow it to teach you the language
Snarling in the effervescence of the long road
To make perfect leaves of the risen artifact.
In the protein horizon of cubic brown shells.
Or the meat of the chambered golden tunnel.
To use the phoneme grown in the corner fantasy.
To salt the wind with degree and grand trine.
A practice of what has made itself perceived.
To use that to enhance the awareness of day.
To coax a silken infrastructure of habitual love.
Or a dew garden of resonant cooling machine.
The border is vacuous and tenuous, a factory
Standing in the shallows of the illiterate coast.
A warm pastry morning anchored by container
And the dreary cycle of refurbished predator.
Reality is the brief smoke of a stunted tree.
Corded by a rumored code, a quiet syntax
That makes a leper of the tall universe inscribed
Into the wilted ceiling of a public hospital.
The source becometh echo. The sun a star.
To open wax paper on the hill below the wind.
As the alpine evergreen bends a response
In the ancient blue lands rained by fatal seed.