spill thru my eyes.
I’ve been looking for you
a long, long time
in the tall grass,
goin’ back into the past,
movin’ mighty fast--
a penny a poodle, a dime a patch!
Fondling medieval girdles
a shadow jumps of me
a-hangin’ from a tree
even farther away
really quite beautiful
the calico chambermaid
has never done this sort of thing before
in a maw of crows
a pit of sky
the glint of eyes—blue diamonds.
Under a cloud
lace the night
play across the ceiling
shifting too quickly to assume
any fixed geometrical shape.
Now I’m squashin’ out my cigarette butt,
feelin’ kinda generally fucked-up—
my reflection in the fun-house mirror
of a man who’s fought with phantoms far too long
neither gettin’ off nor gettin’ it on
standing alone on the blue glass lawn
among the steaming masses
where the airliner crashes
rise up & they arise
in aquamarine eyes
all there is or ought to be.
Solitude dissolved the universe
on a park bench
& only the stars
to share the instigation.
It may as well have been
the day after tomorrow--
slices a shadow in half
formed in the foaming
empty & empty & empty some more
before we depart
everybody gettin’ by
everybody ‘bout to cry
& I know someday I’ll die
but it won’t be tonight
the lie lifts the truth
out of the sky
& the night
fills up with golden flies.
I cower under crumpled
newspaper headlines imagine other “i’s”
while the haystack steadily diminishes
under agitated skies
in the fantasy
in the factory
in the trajectory
& mistletoe time bubbles
in the ruins of the fortifications,
in the sun on the lawn on which the children play:
settle me with a promise
& give it to your favorite charity:
I’m just yr Christmas clown,
yr 4th of July scarecrow
with a fire-cracker crown.
I’ve been all over this god-damned town.
Stupid Helen screaming at the seashore
kicking at a pile of dust. Me?—
I’m sitting in a hotel lobby
wondering who I can trust.
Her ships are sleeping in the harbor;
her cavalier is turning into rust. Me?—
I don’t do things because I want to
but because I must. Crazy Mary weeps
a spunky river, zigags across the desert plain.
Someday, somebody who reads this will know what happened to me.
The panther paws the cagefloor;
inside, out-of-tune plays the “Masquerade Waltz”
a little something I composed for a film
went around in circles & tilted to a halt.
It’s a little bit sketchy
between this & that living-dying
breathing expiring spiral dance becoming being
cataclysm but emerges all right in the end
from the occasion,
identity’s disappearing act
sandwiched between the pages.