If like the scorpion
Gagging the sun
He remembered nothing that there is nothing
conceived by a challenge to transcend
the clade where words return upon returning
I place a sapling of noxia to the sea and I name it the Star
Crossroads
The sun is round because round is
the land where wings break
They think they have returned to tamer colors
the flat bones splattered with nothingness, adrenaline and
percussive pause, in tumult up
through the rays and fanned into bleakness by life, a kestrel screamed
once; a catalepsy reincensed that scream with its cellophane sheen
until now, fraught low in the tizzy, they
dutifully die
and there are nower pomades then for sweetened dreaming
Let’s do it this way
Let’s carve the lime sap into the black stone of a skull
Let’s give the voice of the master to a deaf instrument
How spitting unto clarity is the true call of speech
And what, in this siren hour, that turns the nape of my neck
to preclude both God and the self-affirmation of my desire
Is a mother wrapping itself in opal hair
such a huge sum of disorderly fleets that no land could harbor
when the stone lost its voice
I want to sing but I am not a soprano
Let this opus bray lustily, that my flow of time be
underflung by the jetsam of broken hearts
Or fine skinks that dangle
in the livid tints of dead kelp
Where there is no Suchness, there is a knowing against itself
divorce, where art thou
pushing off the skin of poinsettia
Do you really want the chimera of vision to send me candy cigarettes
gush milk from the macula of sunset’s iris?
The flower’s defiance is involuntary
But is it nature that gifts us with beauty or am I forcing
myself to bloom automatically as you say
yes
there is beauty in nature and then there is only my love for it
disorienting like an overturned car
breathing out its liquid end
Desire is everything it is not
For who made the joke is dead by the cemetery drip
for blithering joy and then to slither back
is a pleasance overshadowed by fleabane
I say wait. Wait for a decapitation by rainbow, wait for
one of these days of continuous flux in which death is sometimes
a flower of its own.
Is it jealousy that vies in me a kiss from it?
Perhaps this ant-haunted stucco needs our vacant gaze
I need it to be shaped by the hand of nature, a
sudden riot of yellows and greens as you prepare to snuff
smooth the crust of my dry lips to lift that maggot of a mask
The eye disfigures the body with what it is never made to see
Venn diagrams of the subjective and the objective, of analytical logic,
tend to border over a valley
It tells me
that my wilting self is more important
than the tyranny of generative word-structures
That
this facsimile has triggered infinite selves inside
the fluorescent grip of quarantine
Such smoke and patchouli burns
there’s no nourishment for words that are gaily eaten
When the geode is your puke
we will fuck forever
thy silence allows me
to drop this tarantula
testicle rococo on my faux silk throne
And you now know the windowless road of young love
the liquid facades and stagnant moldings and overloaded bay windows
the cobwebs sprouting cheetah teeth
You know it was love after all that made us go blind
or perhaps the high walls of the prison
it was night watchmen with skirts whiter than the moon
camouflaged in the sanguine soil
Since I am the star of birth I
will give birth to the purest flower of language
sting my tongue at the cauliflower coursing
on a teal anus of leafy neem
You weren’t there and neither was the prophet
But I hear The radio sends its
peals of swan musick, not to line the bottoms of my golden grudges
Like the snot of jacaranda petals in these days where love is not God
It’s the cold shiver of the quincunx
that pleases my soft fat flamewalls, strung like linens in the wind
He knows nothing
amazing these nomads who walk like the scorpion
I taste scorpion juice in my mouth
My act has nothing in common with the contemplation of these
forgotten frames
But I have but thy word and the lash for sustenance
Let it go
let it go to the feather of night
Let your death not feel the white band of the boat that carries us back
We share these worlds
not because we are killed or live
or because we can speak
but because
You are like a diamond cut into the shape of a sky
And that is the truth and that is enough
And I can not find the words to say
Just say your death is impossible
and your death is impossible.