Disorder

He believes salts, are monolithic
testaments of grape culture, and crushing grapes
is a form of harassment. His schizophrenia aside,
everything he feels, he feels
very strongly; music he remembers by
the heart; light he gathers in flat spoons;
his frontiers are long erased, and his
fears are always learning to express themselves

- like there is dirt in the dog's eyes,
but does the dog know?
There are no harsh deaths, and there is no longer
an interest in evil. To his sea, he is the man who
bends boats without even touching. Cloudy or not, he
believes the sky is full of stars, and he just wants to be in place
to watch one of them fall.

Somewhere beneath an arc

  We sped through these arcs
    that had lined up in the fields,
  waiting for us to hold hands.
       Arc after arc, our grips
unfastened, as if the eyes we
had ever opened were mirrors,
waiting to be broken.
      Those arcs, under them
the fields so wet, and the promise
  of a grain of rice still floating,
waiting to be stolen.

Old man's foot

Old timer sat at the table,
scratching his teacup
with a counting-down expression;
a demonstration having
lifted itself above the
plain of narrative.
Sort of like counting
down to an explosion,
but doing it with a
serious seriousness.
With more substance
in his face, than in
his gaze - unlocking human
maps - as if from the depth
of a deep well, he saw himself
inside his own shadow,
trailing eternally, to
existence, trying hard enough
to be, where he was.
Old man, who I
did not know, made me sad,
made me want to subtract
my age from his; his regressions
from mine, and arrive
at a convenient supposition:
like his foot, slept just
as much as mine.

Deconstructing public text

Effeminate Dearies,
   fill gap here.
Turn on the mobility.
     Watch shadows purge.
Experience a little
   senseless friction.
Wait for floods
   to change direction.
Wear skin on
   the inside.

Be basic, always.
   Avoid inspection,
 into realms of pleasure.
    About pleasure, do not say.
Smile, when asked to do so.
   Be not the pillow, but
the softness that makes it.
  Build on self-measures.
   
Be invisible, to the latent
   and latent to the existing.
     
Laugh only, at
  opportunities taken.

Be sure, about the
  depths of uncertainty.
Plan, ahead of sight.
  Reflect, only
on liabilities.
   Say something, but
about nothing.

An Ordinary day

It's an ordinary day
  and men with scythes
for tongues, move from room to room;
  poets, they call themselves,
     and with imprecision
  they stare and stalk each breath.
      There are arguments between those
who write, and those who mean it
    to death, and those who plainly suffer.
But eventually - as if their
histories hold them for ransom - they
   lock themselves up, separately, without
    ever confessing to each other that, they suffer
               because life, for everyone else
        seems like an easy nothing.

Setup

Under the arbour
  we sit, two of everything;
    her the wings.I the one clipped.

Lethargy

A butterball belly, nearly
 makes me feel responsible
for all of humankind.
 I keep punching the air
   with what I will call soft coins.
And they keep returning
 as if to ask what will it be? then
drop back into the waist-basket
 where others keep on living -
whole, of everything left of them.
Rivers rise and fall,
  destinations, turn into clouds
as windows continue to sweep.