A collection of photos and poems interacting with each other in ways both mysterious and obvious.
Friendly travelers
casting off gravity,
transmission built to talk to ghosts,
a roadside distinction.
Just say this:
transit of spirit animals
nothing living,
don’t tell lies.
Beat spirit,
respirator buzz,
shadow gratitude,
confessions to my unborn daughter:
when the heart emerges glistening,
one mustn’t expect figs from thistles;
to see what other people don’t,
to see obstacles as inspirations -
to be a peaceful warrior
in an invisible cinema.
Learning to fly in a downwards trajectory,
a tragic achievement with scatological insults;
the overspill of emotion part of your geography.
Memories slurred in cabbage and broken glass -
smart junk,
disposable wit,
fetishized objects,
Pilgrims of Derangement impersonate Fantasists,
a forcefield around eternity.
Autobiography deconstructed from relics,
bleached of meaningful distinctions
fungal avoidance teasing out moral complexities,
esoteric longings and the nature of proportion.
The prejudices gave spiritual status,
sensorial tonality, master of shifting discontent and
diagonal momentum;
Too much to say
very easily becomes
nothing but static.
The impoverish soprano saxophone improvisation
kills the Moody Gospel
in an free wheeling jam session;
a series of inconsistent contradictions,
refusals to be contacted,
doing his dirty work,
by proxy.
You think it's money,
it's not;
it's personality,
and you haven't got one lieutenant.
What has he got that Susie likes?
Lost his leg to a home town sweetheart,
a feeble alibi for amorality.
Your every move is obvious,
all antisocial perversion of value,
not cleverness, not imagination,
just brute force.
The line of wolves who are nothing to anyone.
You are
Genghis Khan,
Alexander the Great,
Caesar -
Yes, they were skilled;
but were they subversive?
People Will Know But Who Will Tell Them?
Life Is War.
A Short Man Is Not A Boy.
I No Be Like You.
Envy Never Lights A Fire.
Gold Never Rusts.
Still, It Makes Me Laugh.
And Jesus Wept.
No One Is Perfect.
Observers Are Worried, Why?
Belly Never Know Vacation.
Sea Never Dry.
Love Is Good.
Love Like Death.
Cool And Collected, Lover Boy.
Are You Looking At Your Mama?
It Is Not Easy.
Women Hate Poverty Because Of Money.
Shopping Is Believing.
If You Don’t Look Well, You Will Not See Well.
Paddle Your Own Canoe.
You Too Can Try.
But Why?
Don’t Blame Jesus.
If God is Your Co-Pilot, Switch Seats
*Found – Peaks Island, Maine
If the discourse of enchantment
is most heartily encapsulated
in the prosperity message
of today’s megachurches,
the program of action is to
mitigate the social cost
of adjustment, which
rapidly depreciates that display -
a syncretic zodiac of variant sentiment.
Deep mythological resources charged
and ultimately
unsatisfying eschatology;
traverses space,
foreshadowing the demarcation
of time.
Fissure - just setting in
vicissitudes of characterization,
of horizontal archeologies
and spatial aggressions.
There are unseen forces that oppose
motivation and seek to douse
the flames of inspiration.
Sirens sound,
waking up the dead;
thieves are on the run,
self-deprivation seems
both a cosmic effect
and an ethical imperative.
Memories are fragile; they
invariably slip away,
are easily destroyed,
and as you know,
motivation can be elusive,
absorbing the potency
of the cosmic shift.
When you add information,
it becomes ambiguous;
an odious atmosphere of tobacco, earthly morality,
and pickles,
connoting nothing pejorative.
The difference between knowingness
and knowledge is only
the echo of its source;
this deliquescence into a
comprehensive resonance
is, like the slow
beating of a giant’s heart,
a declaration of ignorance.
Inhabiting a world of their own
the waitress grabs the old coot,
and with some music
and bogus spiritualism
she licks the last of
the whipped cream
off her fingers.
With the uneasy laugh of horror
The World Clown Association decided
to put on a skit:
two balloons under their bosoms
and carbon dioxide sparklers.
The balloons didn’t fill up equally,
and there were butt prints in the dough.
Hidden incendiary girls,
mobilized vulnerability,
eat bitterness.
Boom, Boom!
Custom is the king of all;
they would wish to get paid to devour
the corpses of their fathers.
That way they’ll be happy.
Animated ornaments
at the Kitty Cantina;
The Heavyweight Sisters,
Dark Monkeys,
and The Mutual Benefit Society,
obstructing government administration,
negotiating worthless instruments;
their words were a desecration of silence,
the transformation of radical ideas
into culture, a diehard rejection
of the idea that we ourselves might be
one such cataclysm.
Human exceptionalism, the
madness gene,
gradually blinkered,
like a star role from no-man’s land.
The dinosaurs came,
got too big and fat,
so they all died
and turned into oil.
