Self-Portrait (Memnon’s Remix)

Wikipedia Poem, No. 652

w652

“And look! Memnon has been stolen away and is at the edge of the painting.” Philostratus the Elder

i know what precisely     to say
do i say     a few years back
what's      right and how much of love 
is high cheek bones and how many 
high cheek bones gatherd here        how low
the creek groans      bones and how much left
i felt          the thin cracks in what's right 
and how does algae grow so deeply phonetic
down my chest beauty     when ever 
where ever     i'm not looking at my phone 
am i begging myself    to stay    say a few years 
back    what precisely do i mean or am           
i asking me or am i asking me or am i asking           
my phone when ever i'm right behind myself that's 
how love is high       cheek bones and glass skin 
and how much of love       is deeply photosynthetic 
am i asking          my phone which i am not looking at 
first that master's eyes surrounded by bones and           
how much of love       is a long stemmed wine glass 
there are my high cheek bones love
and how much of love is thin cracks in that master's degree 
eyes surrounded by all the pain out of hand 
i know what precisely do i mean or am i muttering again 
either way i see myself    of course    in my master's eyes 
surrounded by   all the rosette bone algae growing     
so deeply phonetic then i say    a few years worth of 
what's right and yet    look first that's how much is felt 
see the seamouth's signifier   and how much of love is glass thin   
skin cracks    in the long stemmed wine glass        full of saltspit 
there are high cheek bones and then there are high cheek bones
in a low cut white v-neck crawling with algae so deeply photosynthetic 
am   i asking myself or am i       asking me
say a few years go by what precisely do i say then
after a few thin years

 

Belted Kingfisher

belted08-sm

By substituting X for their name
We begin to blue-grey a flicker rate
Between eyes, nose, ears and mouth.

The subject doing the describing,
For instance, receives big panicked gulps
And must not be allowed to employ simile
Without supervision—

How liberating!

Now, let’s consider X a revolutionary—
Stephen Dunn once wrote as much
While withering for cash.

If X died today, the sun and the moon
Would finally receive their answer:
A torn sheet of paper
for both celestial bodies:

Grim, graceful and surreal;
A canyon of sugar skulls,
Oh! the lightcycle enfolding forever
Like endless dough.

X insists
They need not be
Consistent.

X’s interdisciplinary epigram, anyway,
Inspired (which?) Dickman’s monograph 52 years on,
The latter being more studied yet
Significantly less erudite
Than the former, who cannot
Will not make up their mind
But will resolve to vacillate endlessly.

Do be you
Consumer
Of Coke.

X is one of the park’s rarest
And least conspicuous trees.

Found only on dry ledges of the summit,
X is little more than a shrub.

X is not a belted kingfisher
Despite their harsh and rattling call.

X is silly and not as
Handsome as you remember.

When Christ arrives,
X is surprised.