Recursion

I quiver blind and deaf
Wind and gravity and light
Define a tumbling body
Blurred rough black against black
A shadow floating over a void
And skeleton bikers crash
Through rifts on flaming hogs,
Spewing flaming daisies
From their tailpipes.
Laughing skeletons riding bitch
Seed fresh ruin with dead
Rabbits drawn from top hats.
A poet tumbles through
A membrane. A puff of smoke
Materializes and dissipates
On a forming horizon
Faintly glowing red
From fires of creation.
No one notices.
The skeleton bikers,
And their bitches miss it.
Surly the rabbits miss it,
And if the daisies noticed,
They kept it to themselves—
Perhaps out of hope
The poet would save them.
But poet gone.
Poet not coming back.
You’re only hope, dear daisies,
Is that you painted a scene
Captivating enough to
Hold a poet.
Make it rubbery elastic,
Gooey and sticky.
Make it flypaper and
Catch a poet.
Make it sharp and deep,
So when I come crashing through,
I capture at least your essence,
A poem for the poet.

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Tis of Thee

The nation needs your compliance,
If you’re willing.
I am, for enough money, sure.
It might be hard
To live with you’ll be doing.
But I may be
Able to eat my guilt away.

He died the next week.
The patten repeated,
A number of times.
Until, eventually,
The program was cut.

It was inefficient
Or too expensive
Or they found a better way.

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Down and Broken

And I still know
Nothing about poetry
Something like mosquitos
I bet
Stalking and sneaking,
Loud and annoying ly
Demanding blood.

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The Chosen

She past out in front
Of the tv slumped over
Hours and hours of religious
Programming glory glory
Halauluah and Jesus wants
Your gold and we are the last
Generation who will have
To toil away on earth.

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Onrush

You came to being
In a burst of white noise
But it’ll be forty years
Before you have the words
To remember how
Form solidified from formless
In a cascade of nervous impulses
Learning to integrate in an instant
And in the next there were things
And a before
The world formed
Around you
Instantly and whole
With past and sudden future

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Because Fuck It

I spit something out
Wonder what it is
And get back to writing
It could be my crumbling teeth,
Or ants, another bee,
Spiders perhaps.
Dirt, could be dirt,
or grounds or leaves.
My mouth feels brown and murky
No telling what’s coming next
What will slither or ooze out
Slip or spit out
But it’ll be dark
And pungent
And hidden.

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Cotton mouth?

I wouldn’t be so worried about the snake if we didn’t have chickens, and rabbits, and mice, and birds. For the right snake it’s a feeding bonanza. The right snake is probably venomous.

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Baby Blue

How do you feel about introspective measures?
The way you should, of course.
They’re bunk, bogus, unreliable

I could tell you that I’m doing great

That I have a strong and disciplined mind, thankfully, or else I might go mad

That I strung myself in a corner by growing too fond of a muddled idea

That it’s almost like ripping latex from flesh

That, meanwhile, I wrote seven poems

That I’ve waited for rain and need a scarecrow

That I’ve been trying to figure out whose DVDs are who’s, and I delight in the hand labeled ones

That I’m digging “Reflections and Echoes”, the double DVD rockumentary on Pink Floyd. I’m hoping there’s some Floyd here somewhere. Maybe there was a CD, maybe I already loaded it.

- - -UPDATE: the Pink Floyd, the Dark Side of the Moon CD, is actually another, and in my mind, inferior, DVD rockumentary. But that could just be disappointment talking- - -

That I’m wondering what the AM Gold CD is.
It’s molded like a 45, and I wonder if it could be played on a turntable.

It starts with a soft-rock riff,
so I imagine it’s a soft-rock compilation

- - -UPDATE: it’s a sampling of various pop genres of olden songs you can imagine listening to in a 70s convertible, baby blue- - -

- - -UPDATE: you probably have a fro, and a bedazzled jumpsuit, purple with wide lapels, pink with navy trim. Covered in glitter that you probably call fairy dust.

A platform boot stomps on an accelerator, a glove yanks a handbrake, a convertible skids onto the main two-lane blacktop.

Baby Blue bites down on a cinnamon toothpick, releases the brake and rockets into the sunset- - -

- - -UPDATE: there is also Muzak up in here- – -no, wait, it’s brilliant- - -[pouting face]- - -[flushed face]- - -it’s an unobtrusive melody, with innocuous instrumentation, and the only words are a harmonic chorus weaving in from time to time: “you left me just when I needed you most”- - -[sort of unhappy face]- - -[vaguely unhappy face]- - -[crying face]- - -

That yesterday it dawned on me introspection is bunk, bogus, and unreliable.

But how would I know?

[oddly evil and smiling face]

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Attuned 2

A phrase,
slow and deliberate,
common, perhaps cliche,
is brilliant
—how could it not be?
whittled down, averaged out,
streamlined, continued
escaped, perhaps, from
a garden, or wood—
a mishmash unguided and unguarded
a chaotic crisscrossing
of cross-species competition.
Cluttered and busy and jangling. And like a house, or eyes, is a map, a broad overview of a mental state.

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Attuned 1

Beauty is average height,
average weight,
and average hair,
—how could it not be?
with graceful eyes controlled
by millions of muscles,
being fed autonomic impulses
from a million neurons.
Fuck hips, the eyes are the species’ signage.
Before there were words,
we cast meaning with our eyes
when there was danger or need love or fright
This set, this love,
alarm, or empathy
manifests in eyes
before words
your eyes meet,
and you’re human again

Momentarily forgetting
the apple you’re holding,
the juvenile learning nearby,
the ally hiding in the canopy

Eyes are lowrez and fast.
A broad overview of another’s immediate emotional and cognitive states.

Their eyes tell you
your baseline responses
are comparable:
This is an ally
intelligent, cooperative,
and free for sharing.

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Little make-believes in the shape of poems.