Muhammad Ali Jinnah

Wikipedia Poem, No. 518

w518-smm2
“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

Don’t Appear Howling

Wikipedia Poem, No. 487

compartments no compartments than what? 
then what that sound of intense emotion 

death blowing across 
vacant valley no-lines shot across compartments 

no compartments no lines 
between valleys 

no lines between compartments 
no compartmentalizing then what? the 

sound of intense emotion is 
the sound of 

of death crawling across the valley 
of lines sounded across death 

blown across a vacant compartment 
than what then what 

the sound of intense emotional death blowing across 
a vacancy 

lines between compartments 
no lines between them then

tan man meandering 
men rather than meant

Therapy (Pulling Red Thread)

Wikipedia Poem, No. 483

   dazzle in bayonne
them i 
spot the battleship a 
brave 
   thing in me 
but 
      better in college 

baionnette
bayonne
diminutive bayon

i am a 
human who 
     sits unlike a trough 
purchased long at 
the 
      academic front leaking

a long narrow open container 
for animals 
to eat or drink 
out of

        control 
    frightens
thought

thread-eye
rarely painted red

Forbidden Planet with Drooping Almonds

Wikipedia Poem, No. 448

pupils big 
as street lamps
warming up
      
an 
attack 
of white iron radiator hiss 
father by the ramparts
that bed remember
beside a white work truck 
       his bed
inside the white iron radiator 
       his left earlobe 
  — 
  
tall 
        field
that rampart
               save 
       mending 
    in forbidden planet
      with almonds 
drooping 
    
an albino peacock over a 
small 
         sweet lamp
warming his father's 
        long 

their 
bed
beside the white work truck 
one hit 
of cedarview avenue please

behind the suburburating forbidden planet
       with almonds 
drooping 
      for 
black holes 

near station square and 
          elian gonzalez

          like diogenes' razor-cut baseball fields the 
pigeons 
and buskers take what they are given

and smile

arguing 
in their bed
beside 
     the white iron radiator 
his father's 
long 
white work truck tells me 
         one 
  hit 
    of bart 
simpson acid 

      — $8
          
      hours later
       nyu 
and extensively 
freckled

downtown traffic
masturbating 
     into 
        catcalling 
father's 
  long white 
iron radiator his
      left earlobe — 
tall 
sweet lamps
     warming 
  an 
      exotic
species mending 
over a 
      small 
field
that 
      abuts 
pigeons and overwhelming my maturity overwhelming 

in his bed
beside whiteness
stone-cut blondeness

      hair 
gelled up to an
         insignificant 
     slope
the pigeons 
        overwhelming are not validated by their quantity but rather 
      long 
   white 
iron radiators of their 
  fathers 
    
   long white 
     pupils big 
as big 
street 
lamps
warming 
overwhelming into catcalls
   
scott pulls me 
   one 
    hit 
          of weird whiteness
      stone-cut blonde
         
hair gelled into his 
   left earlobe — 

      a tall field
of rather
      long 
whiteness dotted 
with elian gonzalez
          
      or masturbing the size of an insignificant slope
     at the pigeons and extensively freckled up 

         albino peacock glassine overwhelming 
albino peacock
          glassine over a 
          small suburban-side 
  hit of bart simpson 
      acid 
       
     — $8

    college freshmen 
        and 
        albino peacocks glassine 
         overwhelming in his 
          left ear — lobes of
    tall stone
      that 
abut the palatial valley
at their bedside of white 
iron radiator hiss
they save me 
one 
hit at a time
an 
  attack of whiteness
    a jello-cut baseball sweet lamps
        warming 
       
         for 
      black of weird white 
iron 
      his father's 
      long whiteness
      stone-cut blonde
  
hair gelled 
up 
like an albino peacock
glassine over 
the small field
that ramparts
         they save money 
by drooping 
       in 
   their beds
beside 
one hit of white
pupils big 
       as big as street lamps
warm      
          
the pigeons above and 
my 
      maturing in his 
left 
    earlobe — 

tall fields
mend ramparts
       
        drooping 
        not of this valley
at 
   the pigeons on the white 
iron radiator in his father's
white work truck

Who Is Not Me But a Metaphor

It’s OK
Say it
No
Out loud  

Good, good
Next time yr held
Or perhaps holding — that
Core warm brand of love
— Say it, again
Just above a whisper

It’s OK
Say it
To the sea wind
To the cheap crumpled bed sheets
          by whom?
To that masterfully grown blood orange
          you’re about to peel and lick
Say it
And you shall be freed.