Quickly in a gray ship over gray sea, or sky if one were to modernize,
or through a universe of space, gray space between time-heavy stars,
some not yet discovered
 
so hypothetically the universe completely filled, no space whatsoever
between timed stars
thence no time, but thank you anyway for the speedy return and give
thanks please to those
 
without death, though we’re included in that, regarding the divorce of body
and rising spirit,
but we all need gods.  Jobs, that is, excuse me.  Wretched faith.  If ever we
 
have given open hands and flare, directly or indirectly so, pass it away,
owner of slaves, father’s father’s father sir we now pray, to you sir
 
we offer mallets and some oil.  We’re the first of groups in this relative story,
a second group’s been sent to slaughter us, and another’s out in response
 
to save us from the second.  Can we out-god said happenings.
Out-think them.  At least, then, in hypothesis, out-think our own histories;
 
we’ve packed all pieces of them carefully, fit snug into the corrugated boxes
for easy transport, protection and such.  On top of the boxes we placed
 
the items we couldn’t fit, and from the boxes these items fell; mirrors and
scissors
sprawled into the blowing grass, you see this brings us, as always, to bloodied
feet.
 
So here’s the pill to help us through such a passing,
we’ll not cry or mourn for an entire day, of course during which I don’t
have to tell you.
 
Sip.  If ever one has, please grant.  Fear to the west.  Of here.  So hardly a
mule team
with packs, hardly teams of sworded horses glaring quickly, as the hurried
thought circle,
 
as the making of sense, grant us they may ride themselves
into or over their own cliffs, that dawn really starts a day with new fingers,
 
no matter which new color, the day starts over with the fire patches
sifting through the landscape, deathless god, immortal dayclothes.

 

 

  

 
 

Branches curve into the sky
as if “into the sky.” We walk through the gate as though it’s
“open,” from wherever, in whatever shape, though
it’s been a long and something something journey,
we seem to’ve reached the end of this side of.
I’ve to find another word for surreality.
Or was it beauty.
Francis Bacon’s face emerges from the upward blur,
blue inside blue, spilling,
right where we can see it, the blue of day
frightening in its swirls, a thing beyond itself.
The thing with Francis Bacon is he rarely laughed
at himself.  Half of modern time’s spent asking oneself
why one asked oneself
about the giant bag of oranges in the fridge.  Place your lover’s
flowers on the bookshelf so the cat won’t die.
Sound of sawing up ahead.
And we’ve done exactly that—trucked “ahead.”
“Assaulted” the terrain, wings painted on our backs,
which, although with good intention,
may have been a bit much.
Intent becomes action—has to—but sometimes
it becomes a branching of intentions:  paper clip, emergency brake,
ceiling ceiling ceiling fan.  Earlier today I met my friend
and we so tactfully avoided pain.
March through language long enough, he said, and eventually
it’s three days later.  Is there an original model
out of which we’ve wandered,
and will there ever be “arrival.”

 

 

  

 
 

The man sprawled in the city square spilled bloodline
either from his shoulder or his mouth, either the year
 
I lived on tiles in the barrio or the spring of the parade,
St. Patrick’s Day, blocking passage to my grassy home.
 
Into being I have dreamt a green-blue
rocket ship, as well as extra cushy seat ensembles.
 
Or the day of having dreamt the most corrosive vision,
of which I’ll never speak on any literal level, or the day
 
of the sonorous mosquito truck.  Cessna crash,
metallic tongues, buckled kneecaps.  With double doors
 
which unlawfully open inward, firehell and outward movement,
or with the doors in which fresh daylight cracks appeared
 
bi-monthly, starting each from new foundations.  Down the road
was always an omniscient voice exploding, from behind
 
what seemed to blossom as a home.  But down which road and why,
within the context of neighborhood particulars, had I described
 
a voice as an explosion.  Had I frozen the entire happening mid-ignition
or had I walked through the aftermath.  This all took place
 
inside the age of post-production, when I decided
to edit out the realization scream or the slo-mo facial tick, executively
and with not a qualm.
 
Everybody, everybody to the floor.
Brilliant, how the cinematographer used her medium to capture
 
such an archaic stumble while focusing solely on the actor’s
head.  Of the rhetoric presented as backdrop to my
 
truth-based film, I’m sure I made an aesthetic spectacle.
Truth in lowercase, respectfully.  Man walks into crowd,
 
holds a pistol to the lower jaw of the man he’s been paid
to hit.  Man walks into crowd and fires, randomly,
 
hits a shoulder.  Man walks into crowd, trips, misfires
through his own lower jaw, grazing someone else’s shoulder.
 
Man walks into crowd, trips, shoots a hollow-tip
through his own familial shoulder.

 

  

 
  First the moose then plural moose and then the story of the coming together of moose and field, and now the trampled foreground, the field was so un-used, we’re witnessing here the apostrophization of moose to field and all we can do is watch or read of it later and wait for some other beauty.  What of this some other beauty.  Now the unsolvable cats slinking through the grass with bats chirping in their mouths, neither really biting the other as of yet but both become a singular new thing, the process of two things meeting, leading to the sudden feeling, leading to the sudden digestion and smattering of the bats, kapow, I ask you exactly into what have the bats transformed.  Filth on the grass maybe but it’s always the grass, it sticks to my shoes, falls off in my house.  I have a little broom. I have a big computer, it’s sitting in my bedroom, the red-head from the internet says to me tight pink barely legal teen snatch dripping for you, spreading herself with two fingers, the market waiting for her, there’s a swallowing going on here, I won’t even mention the other twenty-seven steps to ruin, hell it might not even be ruin but certainly is something led to—a knife jabbed in, deep, hidden, seen by few.  Should I or should I not remove the knife, for all I know it’s killing you and me and the red-head but holding everything else together.