MOVEMENT 1 (let’s say): MAN HAS SENSIBLE DREAM
Sometimes one wants a definition,
so I pulled one out of my ass,
where all the best things come from:
poetry simply means nonlinearity.
Therefore that fuzzy thing in the corner
is a poem, therefore the ghost of Truman Capote
taking a chainsaw to a freezeframe fire
while singing every aria from Carmina Burana backwards
is a fucking poem. Literature should not disappear
up its own asshole, said Vonnegut, but if it does,
you can always pull it out centuries later,
after the shit has flaked off and crumbled,
and with a few careful swipes,
you have before you a masterpiece.
Good thing this is neither literature
It’s only a line here,
a line there.
I implore fimetarious exhumers
to wear this button:
I’M AN ASS ARCHAEOLOGIST, ASK ME HOW.
There’s very little silica in the composition
and the creature on the glass is an abscessed obsessory,
sixteen scratched beads per varicose limb, drained fizz, pockmarked,
some iridescent liquid that the sun fried out,
rigor mortis, encyclopedic trapped fart coaxed out
by scant puffs of vermin breath, compendium of the forsaken, ominous–
its least favorite word, I am sure, for it
tossed it out so lethargically, some
sort of selfhatesturbation–
in any case, gone.
If I had done existence another way,
beside it, everything else would’ve been boring.
I mean the other way around. I mean
I could handle boring. No? No.
BIOPIC INTERLUDE: THE WOMAN WITH NO GUITAR BREEZILY PROCLAIMS HERSELF AN ORNAMENT
This man is pregnant in his shoulder
and I bring him three half-filled bottles of olive oil
that had been hidden in a locker made from a hollowed-out book
that had materialized in various places throughout the world, places
I’d never been, where it had been itself, alone,
missing its own lost language–
the whole affair seems biblical as all hell
though neither the man nor the shoulderbaby care for my gifts.
Ethel in her incessant righteousness exhumes a mirage
and I can do nothing but marvel at her ataraxic pantomorphomism
while I fitfully, fervently falter. Ethel knows I have neither the will
nor the right to belong everywhere. Who am I
to intrude upon the jumelle.
SCHERZO: CANDY RAINS FROM THE SKY. WE ALL GORGE ON IT. BY NOON WE ALL REIGN EQUALLY PSYCHOTIC. PASTRY FILLING: INSIDIOUS PERPETRATORS AT THE BASE OF THE MOUNTAIN. THERE IS NO WORD FOR ‘PSYCHOTIC’. THERE IS NO WORD FOR ‘APPLE’.
At my side sits ‘my’ pantomorphic pet
who goes by a name other than Ethel
and I know it means to be a different creature
one that has never met me
so I give it encouraging peppy pet talks, merely
preparing myself for its departure. It pierces
my tongue with its talon, tells me it isn’t my pet at all, it is
itself. The talon blurs into fur in my mouth, but not before
it splits my tongue down the middle. It can achieve
its desired end form only in increments
and I dully register that it is in great pain. There is no blood. Not
on my tongue. Naught on the blurred body. There is pain. Always pain,
in the interludes. I look
away. I wiggle my two tongues. There are breast implants on my desk.
Amber knocks on my door. The door is far away. She will not leave
me alone, in my dreams. Thirteen years ago, she (unwittingly)
appointed herself my dream guide. She floats through the door
and the space xertzes itself down to the width of a column.
I tell her a doctor put in these breast implants
when I was small and had lung surgery because he said
that due to the surgery I would never grow breasts. I failed
to tell him how excellent that sounded, I just waited
until after the damage had been done, then
came back to this room ten years later and sliced them clean off.
There is no blood. Never blood at the tail ends of end titles,
only vertiginous scrolls adhered to solids. Together
we stare at the breast implants
while my non-pet scoffs and scoffs, morphs and morphs. All its pain
bestows upon it the freedom to remind me
that I am stupid, for it knows it is going
somewhere while also having absorbed the lesson
of its ephemeralness. Finally
Amber says that I made the right decision.
I understand then
that she has never existed.
The abbacus windmill man
guards the secrets of the town
as he spins the eyeballs
that blink in the place of beads
with his own scorched orbs (all the
moisture in this world belongs to the dead)
believing me the harbinger
of counterclockwise, the
monster come to molest
the gone bodies, to cinder the souls.
But I can’t even see here! I protest.
So? he scoffs.
It’s a photograph with curious patches of focus:
I am filigree of a figurante
without figurate. The lion
has lines, lines without words,
without geometries, balletic;
with just a metaphorical tilt
of its blurred head:
this stop-motion sunrise is to be the last.
There is, too, this brass ball on the end of the banister
–not attached, but precariously balanced–
behind which the lion swishes in and out
of focus, then finally beats the sun to death.