Sunday, May 2, 2010

Come In

It is anonymous or glue to excite the cream of the mind into animals. Hurt will swim in it like a definition of birth. The river stirs its simple mirrors. Dogs, by implication, smell the evergreens.

The tonic which is teeming with thought floats a bicycle made of urge.

Pepper from incentive, not hills.

An architecture of willow which scratches the sky is forefront. Everything else is butter. Pharmaceutical planets converging on an aerodrome.

Apollinaire ambushed the bruise because it was too parenthetical to carry into pulp. Blister between a finger and an old conflagration.

Intentions are all I have, including plays, reflections, and Braque.

Think like a geisha, act like a Cubist.

The organic must breed hinges and strength to reach today’s ceiling. The late examination so jingled it disturbed the potato. Stink as a mutation, as a mushroom does. Byzantine cotton for apples and virtuosity. Thought was the joy we flopped on the floor, a symptom of paregoric, as if yellow disintegrated into description.

If you use words as I do, as popcorn, the chowder will change into calliopes.

Invite an almond so that a murder’s height reflects the plumbing from silver. The creamy emotion has been spread on our needs. Perception through indispensable chains is providence. The incentive disturbs me but the itch is within.

Myriad smacks unsnap their peculiarities on a cloud of dust. Hirsute dump that a ground disfigures.

The mongrel air proliferates in silk. Words slide through it igniting remembrances of cribbage and crab. Mint eludes the trousers. It is a pleasure that is vague to the bulbs but specific to wind. Call it the chisel that an hallucination banks. The deliverance inside the brain. Indigo more bride than abstraction. More enthusiasm than travel.

Sandstone fits the escalator within. Words are shattering. Awed leaves in the anthology below my world. Smack because the semen develops alone. The ghost of an ox is apparent in sex, but what shapes the water in a ceremony of drool? Spirits have spun our pronouns into roots. The house begins with asphalt. The thumb is an incentive to swarm the knife with our fingers.

There is a grebe that bangs against the roof of the mouth. It is a slap to the stars to think existence grows from brightness. It grows from stress. The same blade in the emotion that an alternating current creates from incense.

Pronouns are eels. Pull them into the water. Bottle the red until it writhes in deeper attraction. Clasp the winters that sanctify teeth.

The air bites shrewdly.

The door is a category of amber.

Come in.

2 comments:

Steven Fama said...


What an ending! Thanks for that invitation, and here I am!

Interesting, given that closing here -- "Come in" -- is actually a kind of opening, to read the poem as if that final sentence is the first, and then read up the page. I hope you do not mind me turning the poem upside down like that. No, it doesn't really work, but I did have fun spotting certain things.

And on a very personal note, I laughed, a good thank you laugh, when I came across the word "providence" about ten paragraphs down!

Anonymous said...

This is fucking brilliant.
I'm not even sure if you're showing off or not !!

You make me feel like a clumsy, tongue-tied fool, so... thank you, you bastard!!