“There was a blue rug on the floor of her room, one chair, one chest, and a narrow bed. Stockings hung in the bathroom. A curious luminosity from the garden, where a lush red magnolia peeked in through an open shutter. Sometimes at dawn the gulls would come and walk busily about on her windowsills, jerking their little bodies like pigeons in sunlight. She began undressing immediately, while he murmured stray strands of information in warning tones, about the cellular panic soon to inundate the world. ‘Madness. It’s pure madness. They’ve broken the locking system which gives form to matter… My dear Esmerelda, they are about to overthrow the principle of creation itself, dissolve the lovely structured essences of nature until only chaos prevails. ‘” from “Antlers in the Treetops” by Ron Padgett and Tom Veitch
dead
resting ice
daily and loved
you sleep without words
will all the mottles claim
staying did nothing about straying
without all the uncontrollable
head space
beside takeout ambulance words
will the large black supple magazines
sunglass in the night sun kabloom
swiftly he needs to know
how small is this husbandry
in the supermodels brain of god
it is not dependable all this blue flailing
for medicine beef commercial value?
what quaint earnest wanting to survive
as one of my ears my ass into the thought's claim
it's intensely leashed with expensive exception
action i couldn't have known
how i would act in the future tense
new paltz then as three-headed corporal air
perpetual tumble machine between car frame
& car frame the fragmentalist's dead of tiredness
