Thursday 16 June 2011

a question of milestones...

that is, brief, noticed tropes to melt through the endless avalanche of time. Heavy snow, it used to be. A birth, a death. Death. Now my own. In anger, I am turning back. I gave up as a child, I ran from those that seemed to have power. Sarah Midwest, she wore red braids. I let her keep me as a snake. I slithered the playground for her, happily ashamed. Those notes I harbored for her were fears. Those moves I made on her behalf were imitations of scars older than my body. How they continued! Contortions over a bowl of soup, within a shared bath. Yet she did not notice. And no they weren’t looking. But in an explosion, the demarcations from early dreams were scattered everywhere, potholes of pre-experience. 'I am. I am I am I am.' They dug into me.

Then clemency. In fantastic purple spring I was electrocuted by tulips, I took drugs to lower conductivity, then for resuscitation. The Panther tattooed above the underwear, breasts enormous, Socialista. But I couldn’t reach her through the snow. Cloudy-hot Brazil. What insulation would’ve meant.

A couple of turns through deep space and I am shooting three or more cameras at once. Impossible. From my liver, all of them. Attached and splayed out as in a circus. Animal, open, divine. A red ball in the tent. Taurus running, then around again, and face smash into the ring. Money back, folks, go home, nothing more to see. In the back rooms the elephant has been given LSD, and will soon be dead. What are they on to? Nothing- the vapors of the deceased. Although I wouldn’t bet against them. They always win in the end.

Remember Uncle, a Stooper. Impossible for him to be free, though the cage is shinier than it used to be. In his wildest dreams drank Bosco all day and sat with the little mayor of something. He was positive, a time machine filled with rattlers. Now he’s a shared needle. But tell me something I don’t know! I could have spent the entire month here, in a thought, a turn beneath a tree. Yes the optic mind, traveling, resting underneath the smoking gold canopy. Underneath, in leafblack cities of quiet, I’m there. A baboon breathing, or a howler. We made love on a car 600,000 miles away from the surface of the earth but landed safely.

And there where it always has been, in optic-mind schoolhouses in Iowa… old, fearful, burning empty in summer, the distance reducing optics to a shadow, enlarging it to an emotion, there somehow I must find sleep.

Sincerely,

Your Donkey of a son.

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