toward an industrious piece replete with
a parallel (some words you o you just have to
memorize, sorry) wherein the cast (thank you
Mister Tolstoy) ultimately goes through
other last door (glossy, canary yellow)
(margin note, labyrinth,
a copper-hued portal mirror,
free admission if you pack light)
only to become what
they always wished
here on mama earth.
You boys,
you love and emulate
your fathers for one third of
your life, spend a third of your life
trying not to be your father,
and the last third of
your precious time
missing him
Why not?
You can't have it neatly compacted
--like three blocks of ripe
garbage--and expect
to build a sturdy house of it
They slept for a good while
and then~~~~after simultaneously
crossing to surface
fancy expensive
rem sleep mode
right before believing
they'd capture
some near-cellular
paradoxical perplexities
of that dream again~~~
there you go
with the ass pinch?
warmly they laughed and
shared a thick cigarette
clothed within
baby blue sheets
Mini lit the television guide
bellybutton
toward the last
bright object,
the blue-grey television
bolted to a steel apparatus
above the room's primary colors
wall hanging: women with umbrellas~~~
Monet's Wooden Sidewalk Beach~~~
spiking the channel search arrows
her spade-sharp burgundy nail,
spinning
up-flipping
a montage
ever-thin evah
for a good one hundred twenty
seconds~~~~ muted~~~~
until she arrested
the audio visual,
traipsed homeward ~~~~
upon one of
eighteen science channels~~~~
where red number pinned jelly fish
swam and raced~~~~
like translucent white-wisp pliable bolts~~~~
tentacles as long as plastic handcuffs~~~~
incongruous daylight
bright phosphorescence green~~~~
Sync some music,
the clock radio~~~~
O this is wonderful.
O my how Odd.
The Theme from the Lusitania ~~~~
Howabunga
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Heidi Herron
N. Jordan
inthisdeepcalm
asia rein
Anne Cameron Cutri
jmac1949
Salon.com
Comments
Of course i see the opportunity for line breaks.
Meanwhile, this is a damn good synchronization visual interpolation of an entirely beautiful song.
thanks for reading, listening and all that global village reality. the wind never blows, of course, it wafts and flies off with Ms. Gale, who sometimes wore a red coat.
Scary moment for Regis, our gentleman king.
paradoxical perplexities
of that dream again~~~
For me, this encapsulates this poem, though "encapsulates" is the wrong word, for, like a dream, it is recombinant, it swirls and pools and eddies and pirrouettes. As I read I asked, ala Emerson, where do I find myself--and I like asking that question about poetry. Dazzling and incalculably engrossing. And, the stanza about fathers was "near-cellular," viscerally so, for me.