Sunday, May 17, 2015

Moody Vapor

Vagueness becomes a motion
And fulfills my show as an artist
Beneath a river. Spirits in a bottle
A nude woman squeezing a sponge
Like the careful thread of a wobbly
Is easily exasperated by color and
Dreams tossed at punches sympathetically
In burlesque. The magician is troubled
The impersonal coils into introversion
The Chowder River brings sorrow
To walk with giants. The oysters
Live on a farm. My face emerges in a
Correspondence with Henry Miller
Dear Henry I admire your tenacity
Now look at my face and tell me
About French fries. We whirl
Through exhibitions of metamorphism
Don’t we? And then the spoons chatter
With ghosts. The unfolding of ourselves
Is intriguing. Maturity crumbles like lingcod
Deep-fried in beer batter. The denizens
     of Deadwood
In a milieu of explosive dialogue. Please
Somebody help me. What is this life
The first thing that comes to mind 
Is the sun shining down on a lake
There may be some use in having a picnic
But because it is cool in the Abalone Lounge
We might also consider Kurt Cobain
Playing his guitar in a kitchen cupboard
We all like to jump into the light
When the smell of the lumber is fresh
Pain is sometimes sexual, but is that why
The English Romantics were so fond
Of frilly cuffs and collars? When the skin
Breaks blood appears. That is all I know
And silt at the bottom of a pond

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