Or swerve from his regular track; or beggars cloak and recline near his barstool; or the bodies press him as he walks aside, or on Christmas Morning at The Elks, Watertown, after pneumonia left him again, the illness scarred the parish, Mr. Graph of Pumpkin Yard Hill, no followers nor admirers nor sickness, but by request and promptly granted, stored in silence. Glory waits Him (ball and biscuit) but Not Yet (Jia); comic undertown but phoenix of the bay: from the groin of crabbers to the iced fork melting yellow, to the dark lawn and a cloth of night sky, dark blue, cracking open each star she lips for him. Al on highest Whiskey re his wail; filled fannypack of sulphur shelf whereas all before all was tuck and toss up for him as a lost rambler, on airplanes ripping, falling through down to new earth, hobknobbing for nitrous oxide, banana milk, sticks of chuar, beer served on a table of peanuts and peas, sans turmoil, but lackeyed a while under the sky ironed blue; learned to speak rough American syllables from crashing waves that crashed for him, stomped his way through sickleshiftsighs but sank his gaze from seawalls; doctoreyes, Woodhose (Jeepee), Night, burns and burns to say nothing of its everymoment feeling: the gleam of the glow of the shine of the sun through the death of the death on the tarmac rush, the entire world paved and turned to air, the skycity of Newyork durst turned rainbow. These dyes suffuse him, maddar, cinnibar, vermillion, bullkelp green, spent ash, smoking sundew and all the blues of water. Case of leather like a guitarplayer, tight black for comfort, white or black kicks, and starving most days for Pellucid’s Sake, holo, clear, happy; he has twenty-four cousins germinating in the U.S. Alphabet and forebears in the once-kingdom of Poland; his b’s a young rose and her taste is for the red of dried blood and his whale means a slump or five at Napper’s his Kitchen. Recently pierced tart for the woman of his dreams, blood thicker than water from overseas; by genes simian or gaunt and sorrow-eyed, Hamptons Man; you and I and all in each gaze pressed into the earth, at the foot of sullen brown buildings // his eyes color like black rock begone, lithe and lifely, or presaged for excommunication, one heathen night; two handsome turtlegroupers split from their dwellingzones; under shade’s cover one wakes other, just trying to sleep; advances him by eyecraft towards spots of shadelinks dancing through night; and unsheathes Excalibur while the lather resplies no thank’m’m and both go off merrily, hands each in an amber fold of night, act a past, two twill, done.
And back through the night-morning our two heroes go to gaze at waterlilies drifting with the greensmoke of morning, a time when tarantulas carry on their backs monarch butterflies, already dead, the one points to other and both watch as the sun, solid steady pillow, blues up the park with touches of green a memory each seals in compartments where all turns to other.
Is vroten staten bloten of the tokdrick fanciful bakcpact tribe.
As it blooms from humid ground they tread and lollygag afoot. Money? No. Seeagain? Probablynot. Reasons, give. Adjucated or a difference applepieengrained adjudicated on American preterlatermilinariunitarimilitiflatulism only happy men are capable of anyhow it isn’t Woodstock thought moonrock spectacles are here too.
Sunflowers grow well in regolith.
And if when night blues to day they pass out one after another, one following the other, with each heart newly dented, into the morning fruit market under the arch, mangos eat peaches flossed yellow with cream hair, what harm does it do?
Harm! Friendships made and tied by ides of August night and tides of day. (That one could go back, if one wished, infinite becoming, ad toothfloss, and reap in the past infinite pebbles of newness, occasionally earthing a worthyjewel—cobalt, say—makes all of life worth the wait and the wise and the woe otherwise the slow dragging procession of water into rocks.) But like a mouse trap the ball rolls down the funnels, the wires, jigs across the tilting board, soars over the moat with crocodiles, survives the hippos’ gnashing, and solos on the saxophone before sliding into the oven of realization—oh! Ding! In Night hands rise or pull or twist your slumbering body apart though in day your fists feel the same: not so.
Woo. Burn it out. Burning takes many hands and sides it’s time to let the notes of paradise start:
Each metalcooling season brings a replenishment of fall: red October through yellow autumn; blue June towards lilac May; and the chilling sensation of September and November, a slide into what could only be maroon.
Ta toom. Toom Toom.
Each note builds up a wake of insubstantial things. No referents no color codes; each note a key in a kingdom, demolished like rain on the pavement.
Or emeralds that spin slowly in the dark reflecting emerald light. So light the light seems edible.
Then crunch and molt like a soft orange leaf underfoot. Forever in the forest my heart runs on through new trains of bliss and new trains of bliss and new trains of bliss.
The note slides up the scale and crunches a city on my head which crunches. The scale stodders out before mines about. Then winds about. Then winds about while each a blue star decays.
Or if it could be we slide through each calamity? One two it winds about it winds about it winds about it winds about.
Each siggie fried an egg racking upon the drops which, all full of sun, chorus now:
In each mountain cracked open at the touch of your lips, your red lips and mercury.
Or smile. Each blue drop clarifies in the pond whereat you left me as it cooled into sorrow into shame on to sorrow that burns with each long burnt sigh.
As it frees out a length or wind of rope that comes and bangles then dangles and comes that rope bout wind a length of it winds about, it winds about, it winds about.
My heart cools into the dragging puddle of words: each dare and did their train. A fire dying out its dome of white embers, your lips adroop; I tried and stole one last look from your eyes.
And like that it melted out of you for the last time, coming with each purpose tangled; you could not see them or break them open as it wound apart; into each dance you still uncoiled, winding into each blue color that cracks open like a star through the sky before diving into the waves, under the ocean, all that’s left fizzles and burns out in the air, sparks cooling, and now I can finally say at the end not yet.