Things Are Going To Start Happening To Me Now.

Drawals

If I made a snake out of tire treads
for your family tree, would you hear
some trance music in the well water.

I propose the dance remix be able to
thump-a-thump, make a can of biscuit
water raise to the snail of supermen.

If I made a trail to weep to,
could a soda can come too with hair
and bread like swan’s milk?

These tasty beads of television hope
are squandered to the burger flavored
heaven with karate chop bravado

Ninja tuxedo and constrictors grow
loose around the waist, grow wobbly.

VT750DC

There are such things as mountain wastes, thick, rugged and empty.
Bank and corner so much that there is no active thought.
To run those roads endlessly, would there be any point?
What is landscape when one moves through it quickly?
What do I do with the memory of it? To be lonely and seek it further,
Buffeted by cold against leather, near hallucinating on the back of the Motorcycle. Small village of old houses, burned trailers, what might have been A post office. A blur of a creek and then gone. Back into the woods.
Hollowed out western Carolina, ragged solace east Tennessee.
Perhaps I yearned to crash, to transform into a wraith of those hills.
A shining streak blaring through valley and comet over hilltop.
The expression of wind piercing a pine grotto,
The blue lightning cold of water over stones.

"The third species, which is called Corinthian, resembles in its character, the graceful elegant appearance of a virgin, in whom, from her tender age, the limbs are of a more delicate form, and whose ornaments should be unobtrusive.

9. The invention of the capital of this order is said to be founded on the following occurrence. A Corinthian virgin, of marriageable age, fell a victim to a violent disorder. After her interment, her nurse, collecting in a basket those articles to which she had shewn a partiality when alive, carried them to her tomb, and placed a tile on the basket for the longer preservation of its contents. The basket was accidentally placed on the root of an acanthus plant, which, pressed by the weight, shot forth, towards spring, its stems and large foliage, and in the course of its growth reached the angles of the tile, and thus formed volutes at the extremities.

10. Callimachus, who, for is great ingenuity and taste was called by the Athenians Catatechnos, happening at this time to pass by the tomb, observed the basket, and the delicacy of the foliage which surrounded it. Pleased with the form and novelty of the combination, he constructed from the hint thus afforded, columns of this species in the country about Corinth, and arranged its proportions, determining their proper measures by perfect rules."

--Marcus Vitruvius Pollio de Architectura, Book IV

Fulton

Fog settles between structures in the lowland near this river, filling the yard over the frost. The frost outside on the grass. The dog lopes through it, unseen and tethered yet. To me, to the sound of my voice. Metal door thrown open and iron inside. Put your ear to the cold morning of it, you can hear the river, you can hear the trains. Brick walled all around, with fire in the belly and me. A burning river of iron, waiting to form acanthus leaves, waiting to be quenched. The sun burns off the ragged haze, the dog ambles, streaked brown and black, his pure heart enveloped by malignancy. Locomotives shoulder above us, heaving their freight. I smoke and squelch whatever riots in my own stomach, that which makes us retch. The highway beyond is the smoking river. The columns of smoke now extinguished, fire under iron unreleased. The dog long gone from Fulton.

:::

also...

:::

Without the Vitamins to Hurry it Up

:::

Without the Coughing

Mnemnomacles

French Fried burial posts
yoink then further twists
of your mammary appendages.

These days so much light
your gammas triangulate
to noose ends, shoe lace

doovelhoffer brought a 20
to spread cheese with, high-class
M.F.er wants a medal

and a bath of soapy pickles
to bring to the funeral.

Here’s bread and wax to gouge
a head with, oozy thought cork.

Flood

:::

Derelict 2.1

Much of the cheer is relative
in the freezer course, cruising
near the afterburner.
So if your
looking for the long hallway
you should bundle up. Deep
space is so quick with the drop
you might imagine a squirrel
peep-peeping around the pod
bay entrance, that or something
slithery. Either way you can be
sure something has eyes on
it.
This piñata
you’re de-segmenting your ship
for is full of little clippers
cheeping and making momma smile.

Derelict 2.2

Such bounty and still no coil. The hoses
are blurry in a pile, intestine code

pre-wrapped like Christmas to the bow.

I’m prepared to give a planetoid
over for our survival, that and some cream
wafers. But that is all.

Nervous congestion. The sealing
sphincter.

Rheumatoid-ocerous. Room it old. A room
filled with thinking, about forgotten giving.
One commercial of society bound
with phone wire.
I’m not getting a signal.

The mast is shy of its antennae
so the messages are coiling in the hall.

Derelict 2.3

Stuffing and bread inside all this steel.
And arms, tubes like arms embracing
sloth. Blood vessels keep tabs on use.
If only one blood cell came to market
it would shrivel recognizing, no being
genetically predisposed to recognize
its own parallax of de function, it would
consume itself, withdrawing into the
mother ship with multiplex and aquatic
precision. but here, in the mine, in my
own crepuscularity, I co on, frozen, in
dark space, I go on, waiting for rain,
for smiling sweaty faces to set me
up with a couch of love to sleep on.

Dereliction 3.1

Wiper blade eyelids
and congestive expulsars

I wave like a race fan
from the duct work

from the conduction sink
which moderates

your blue shapes, shades
and crenulations

wink-wink, I can fail-fail
with the wet drowse

on the sill, the incoming
water slithers into

tracks, and rubber viscera
like spaceship tears.

Derelict 1.2

Near the inferno everyone gossips
And sips from the coronary tube.

A mist of dots emanates
Effluvial fashions. On an imported
Box of steak, the tell-tale bloom
Opens a blood letter, the insurgent
Expiration date masses armies
Of forgotten days.

Some shoes are missing
From the infirmary of broken
Wheel spokes. An etching
Appears to mar a lunar map.
An escapee wrings his hands.

Heart, lay the egg.

Panopticola Demonia

Shill or be surgical. That is the pair
Protruding from the rocks near your
Insignia, just down the lobe
From childhood or, as the textbooks say,
The end. If you transcend into phony
You get a stump of the one true
Like an evil eye in your forehead.
They shave a little bone around it,
And tattoo a map of ligaments and arrows
Pointing the way. If you’re lucky
Your liminal pucker gets tweezed right
Off, shellacked, and replaced
With a camera which can receive the data
Remissions that bubble all around us.

Meanwhile Octopus Boat

Standing Doorwards

A clicking dip draws the ragged
churl from a drawer to which,
for linkage sake, we are dependant
upon like gravity.

Stunts are cool too but if you
really want stupefaction
consider the clinking craw-wire
your robot uses to, ahem,
seal the deal.

In photo negative like horrors
from the past, a tricky embrace
and alien gestation prewires
my thinking on fear. I’m afraid

of the doorway, the lunch cavity.

LV481 Derelict Signal