Sense of touch ...

Like   a

rolling arch goes,

 nuzzling  into-ground (

where pressure is taste and

  friction is sound   in the rocks

and dust; in the  bleeding greens,

the sharp shocks and round purrs)

,  along these  simple leather seams,

      sinking  softly, I am faded blind.

            Into the smiling darkness (

          where I find I am flying) –

          I was wrong to think

           “earthly bound.”

            The sense

        of touch

      is like

   being
 lost

and

 f

  o

     u

              n

                                       d
                                                   .

Dry lake (still a lake) ...

The shadows are alive

    with my imagination;

  the dead and empty thrive

         with my imagination:

        Their fangs air, sharp and hot

                                  with my imagination.

              I'm soon but never caught

                                            with my imagination.

                       The last coat of daylight sparks

                                                           in my imagination

                           and oxidizes dark

                                                                               in my imagination.

                                 Then crickets clamor (more,

                                                                                                      with my imagination)

                                        for in the grass there's war

                                                                                                                   in my imagination.

                              And when, through blades, one falls

                                                                                                          in my imagination,

                                         that thrum of chirping stalls

                                                                                             near my imagination.

                                This path is bare, but then –

                                                                             with my imagination –

                          these woods are filled by men

                                                                            in my imagination,

                        Their wind-hearts pumping lust

                                                                in my imagination.

                               And if mine burns hotter (just

                                                           in my imagination)

                                  I'll blow back those fiends (all listening,

                                                                               in my imagination)

                                                            into light, and to non-existing

                                                                                      in my imagination.

                                                                         So this twilight becomes a song

                                                                                   in my imagination;

                                                                     dark birds, a choral throng

                                                                  by my imagination,

                                         Weaving chains before the sky

                                                                   in my imagination ...

                                                               and through them I will fly

                                                                                         with my imagination.

Structural integrity ...

No use the broken shell: a wind-

Shield split & sparkling became

A wall too blind to captain by

& wheezing with the pressure.

A slug back covered in glass      – might

As well have been so –         in the grass:

The mosaic gel of            a snail behind

The boy         who crushed his back.

A vein      of brown decay crawled up

Under      apple-skin red, through crisp

And white.               All from a stumble-roll,

One day back,           off the tree-of-life.

                              He covets

                                                                        the abandon 

                                                                                           of her hair

                                 Silently,                                        this monk, 

                                                                                                     all reservations (

                             A heathen 

                                                                             when he dreams,

                                                                        but

                                                                             who

                               Can tell?

                                                                                   No use 

                                                                                    the 

                                                                          broken

                                                                                                                     shell).

Living funeral {seizenso} ...

Counting calories

     is bad for your health:

                                                                      It'll give you high blood pressure

                                                              Reveling only in              paucity.

   Running when you don't want to

        is bad for your health:

                                                  It'll destroy your knees and hips

                                To feel dragged      rather than drawn.

                                    And what did you learn in                  kindergarten

                           If not that            there's more to the world             than

                       number lines?        That ABCs                           are for screaming

            in the                           worm-thrashing dirt and the                      butterfly wind?

                                                    Stepping on the scale

                                                       is bad for your health:

                                                       It'll give you           cancer

                                                    thinking less of you               is

                                                  more the answer.

                                          Feeling  guilty about           a day off

                              is          bad for your health:

                          It'll          swell you allergic

              thinking             fat is only a holiday

            and                     not also a purpose.

                And who the fuck are you to judge  a  Spring-ripe berry  pie?

                    When a soft hug, snuck in from behind, feels so good, besides.

                               That habit of       stretching and weight-swinging

                                   is bad for your                            health:

                                It'll make you                          tense

                                sweating and groaning, same and same –

                           flushing without coming.

                  Talking about how you've stayed healthy

             is bad            for your health:

everything meta-analytical degrades itself, cannibal,

like dream-thinking “not real”; 

            like an omphaloskeptic Ouroboros

            And everybody dies.

 To chase away the ants and flies

is bad for your health:

To cry without too laughing

 on my rotten face,

  when it finds a place

    to not-move after

       so long moving

   moving moving,

      is bad for

        your

 health.

Hope's replacement ...

                                                                                    Soft light

                                                  came though haze and through breezes

                                                                   at me while you

                                                     filled up my arms from within.

                                                                   That light

                                                                may be dying

                                                              and you

                                                      may be smiling:

                                                   these mays,

                                           all a ghost

                                   on the

                          wind

    (And

always,

  at a distance,

    I've seen

          that light

             out spreading as

                        fast as I run:

                                   “Come near,

                                     be contented.” I've

                                                              chased it.

                                            Lamented. But lo,
                                   you    are warm. 

                    And it's gone).

Framed ...

  I take –

   and delete –

  a lot of photos

             of myself.

Let me tell you why:

                   Looking

          through photos,

        I have no choice

but to see through

the camera's eye.

           Sometimes

                  I take 100

             photos of

     {{!!now!!}}

(most of them missing

                what was).

                I aim and

             wait, snap
            and stow,
       then delete

       all but 3.
Because

                                                                      “My God, that's the face

                                                         I made at 1 – and 5 and 8 and 10.

                                                    It's the look I'll give out at 63,

                                               and as an octogenarian,

                                          And it's not about my face – fuck my face –

                                      I had a dream where a dog stole my nose

                               And lips,

                        and I cried,

                but then looked at these eyes

      in a mirror – still my eyes. I arose

 With this look.

 And THIS one – keep this one. Where I'm sad?

It was true, and I hated being there.

So save this ugly, honest

posture in mind, and if you

see me any sunker, beware.

And THIS one.

     This one, where you

                teased out my smile                                                          while the lens-shutter

                                                                                                      blinked

                                                                                         at my face?

                                                                            That photo's not of me.

                                                          It's of being with you –

                                              just a scene

                               of my

                    favorite

             place.”

n/a ...

                                             My life is a series of strange

                      tree branches fluttering         out the window

         A roommate puttering past

     my half-out, half-in feet on

                       a couch he bought, I live on

                                & a silent phone – silent

                                       over and over again.

                  Your life is a series

        of strange unknowns

 that you tell me               (and I believe

                        that he asked        “Why would anyone study

                                                     pasta?”  when you said you were in

                                                  “linguistics,” that you made the ink

                                              for your tattoo and you'd play

                                                         the cello in the corner

                   of                                       your room – with its

            hat-rack                                            mulling like

          a raccoon-eared                                 butler –

 if your roommate hadn't

broken the bow).

Life                                 is a series

of strange             I-didn't-think-

   I'd-meet-you-     today-

       or-think-of-you-   tomorrows

           enjoy-violet-bruises-

         shaped-like-  your-
    knuckles
  see-
    you-3
  -more-
       times or care-

                             if-my
                                            -phone
                                                      -stayed-

                                                               quiet-for
                                                                            -12-
                                                                         hours
                                                             and

                                            are we
                           having
                      lunch

                        tomorrow?

Vitamins ...

I use them to improve my mood:

the chemistry in my attitude,

the octane of my gasoline,

the assets for my GDP.

Vitamins. And supplements.

Herbs and antioxidants.

Gingko, zinc, selenium,

niacin, garlic, cinnamon.

For energy. And restfulness,

immunity, bright skin, milky breasts:

Fish oil, dill, magnesium,

ginger, glucosamine, calcium.

And of course, there's always

the thing that gurus miss (

between bullets in

their dietary list):

they forget (they should take

ginseng, I think) to write it,

but usually add “find yourself a

hot girl” somewhere in the photo beside it.