Exploded View of my Physical Self

Exploded View of my Physical Self

                      *****

For proper assembly of Maxwell,

carefully follow these instructions:

A.  My hair, the graveyard

where dead cells congregate,

is capped with

B.  my hat, something grabbed

for needless style and signature

in public.  Slathering glue

onto the top portion of

C.  my head, a condominium complex

with a bone armature (skull), quickly attach

A+B to the glued section of C.

The skull is owned by an extremely

fragile component named

D.  my brain, the battery which runs

my vessel.  It is fueled from my heart (see H).

It is eyes.  Apply grease often.

Take the unit A-D, and screw into

E.   my neck, the gateway

from mouth to asshole,

at the back of my jaw, then plug into

F.   my torso: giant armor clasping

around a blood powered engine (heart (see H))

like a scallop shell upon

ocean salt.  Torso is Taurus.

Torso is holder of guts, fat and flab.

Torso is protector of

G.  my spine: bones with burs gummed

together by fluidic discs.

It is the flagpole hoisting my torso,

exercising the blood engine,

H.  my heart.  My heart makes me

want to write prose for eternity,

dying fulfilled by describing intricacies

not even science could reveal.

Next plug in

I.    my arms, match “R” to the right

and “L” to the left.  Jiggle & shake

each arm like the notes of a violin

until loosened at the joints.  Stretch

and pop my fingers to activate.

Caution: fingers metaphorically pinch

thought strands from my brain (see D)

before manifesting them into physical creations.

***DO NOT BREAK!***  Snap

J.    my pelvis, the core and southern

pivot point, like a tractor to trailer

from the tailbone onto the bottom portion of Torso.

Similar to my arms, you will notice

female slots for the male plugs of

K.  my legs, mobile trunks with flat

feet pushing me through space.

Plug legs into pelvis then thoroughly

massage each unit for best efficiency,

loose legs make for better dancing.

Finally, carefully unwrap

L.   my penis and tear

along perforated foreskin;

discard.  Allow testicles to drop

and sway like a pendulum;

perfect rhythm.  Clean often and give

plenty of air.  Erect penis

and ejaculate sperm; millions

of missed opportunities.

You have now fully assembled

M.  me, Maxwell.

Cardinal and Crow

Cardinal and Crow

                        I

Two cardinals and a murder

of crows distinctly chatting

between neighboring branches;

barren minus twisting auburn

vines slunk like somnolent tails,

and an occasional jostling squirrel.

Snow swallows hooves as a deer

herd leaps along my father’s fence.

                        II

True, a fence is like an hourglass:

      flipped one way to keep in,

      once emptied, will keep out

      save a proper invitation.

      True, the deer’s mass is intimidating

      to an unarmed man.

True, the adroit squirrel, with all her nimbleness,

      is seminal in flirtation; astonishing

      celerity, caught only upon her

      empyreal invitation.

True, vines can strangle native trees,

      raping forests their elongated

      growth; humans do it faster.

True, barren Earth is like a diseased

      pubic region, operable

      but void of takers.

True, neighbors are the delicate sauce

      making an eating experience memorable,

      but if soured, attach like leeches

      carefully draining pleasure.

True, the crow, with all his august stature,

      intimidates crumbling humans.

      His mystique exceeds utility, becoming

      the definition of contrast against snow.  

      True, the cardinal is the brightest

     entity against the drab, monochromatic

           landscape which, like an oozing

           multilayered-cake, ascends

           from an emanating white foreground

           to ecstatic etchings of brush

           blending into stern tree masts

           splitting like cracked ice

           the gray-plagued pallor sky.

                        III

Two Cardinals and the murder

of a pubescent seminarian;

never surfacing.  Far in the Church’s

land, by the Father’s fence,

torpor crows observe a moment

between branches lingering

over freshly packed soil,

brushed with snow.

Accordion Highway

Accordion Highway

From my window: buzzing

highway traffic slows as the sun

lowers.  Head lights and break lights

suck out the last rays, proudly

displaying their eminence along the road.

The screaming red streaks blend

with submissive yellow ones like an opera

singers vibrato.  Their passing

hollows out the night

as would the ocean's pull a crab hole;

a momentary draw, then refilling

with the next wave.

From my window: accordion

highway traffic spews heavy pollutants

which collect like colonies of roaches

on the houses beneath the bridge,

adding a smoky film

to the driveway cracks.

Light jets from side-mirrors

and windshields, brightly smacking

my loyal cabinets along

with the eyes of cursing drivers,

yanking slurs from the throats of god-

fearing people and stagnant the same.

From my window: taunting

highway traffic quickens as brightening rays

rise with my coffees steam.

Tattered shoe strings dangle on the carpet

like an abandoned cat toy

reminding me of the sullen Van Gogh

painting, A Pair of Shoes;

ready to walk with a tired friend.

Emanating light binds me to life like

the way writing ties me to a chair:

the way a job ties me to a city;

the way I struggle to leave.

Thirteen Ways of Looking at a Crumpled Paper

Thirteen Ways of Looking at a Crumpled Paper

                                                -Inspired by Wallace Stevens: Thirteen Ways

                                                of Looking at a Blackbird

I.

Crumpled and torn the paper's fluidity,

like a loincloth draped against breasts,

stiffened, becoming  jagged, rigid, recyclable.

II.

Performing gymnastics, a piece of plain white

dropped from a vibrantly checkered hot-air balloon

wouldn't crumple.  Unmatched agility, nimble

and silky, tumbling through the air, correctly

catching wind and landing without a corner

bent -- earning a perfect ten.

III.

Made of native wood, the antique cigar box

contained a pamphlet of  slanderous propaganda

against "Negro-kind."  Attempting to crumple

the paper, it crumbled to brittle flakes.

IV.

Orphaned idea, will you be retrieved

from the waste and your fibers

pressed back to faithful fruition?

V.

Immaculate geometry!  Buckminster would exhaust

into dust calculating your perfect irregularities.

Crumpled sheet... soft dunes; your antithesis.

VI.

Children bat a crumpled ball

avoiding the teacher's lesson.

VII.

Crumpled sheet, you are the pantomime

of tragedy.  Like nirvana, you must seek

to be extinguished.  Fire be your refuge.

VIII.

Shaped like a heart, a human heart,

the college-ruled reds and blues are veins.

Scribbles: the path of cells flowing.

Crumpled euphoria.  Crumpled foregoing.

Crumpled nostalgia.

IX.

Poverty evokes curious creativity.

Gorgeously anomalous; spray-painted and glittered,

crumpled paper balls transform

into Christmas tree ornaments.

X.

Those whom avoid the can,

a graveyard of crumpled warriors,

continue to describe eucalyptus

and all its scent.

XI.

Unfolded, the crumpled sheet resembles

the cracked face of an elderly Navajo.

XII.

Air between the inside walls is a springboard

allowing the tightly crumpled mass to bounce

inches high.

XIII.

Better than a cracked eggshell for an artist

to interpret light, the plain white

crumpled then unfolded mountain-scape

consummates contrast.

City Walks (Winter)

City Walks (Winter)

I.

Hypnotic eyes watch passing strangers

whistle tunes of new pop

culture, lugging thirty packs

like a mother a lulling baby – careful not to drop

or shake it for fear it might explode.

Hypnotic sunset splendor igniting clouds

gorgeously with chemical pinks and elegant

golds, carefully staining the sky

like a molding picture – anxiously fermenting

as if an abandoned berry skin.

Hypnotic white-noise highway

traffic perfumed in constant train-horn warning

blares, cascading low spectrum waves

down packed or abandoned streets – mingling

like molten fire ash weaving.

Hypnotic wires swaying rhythmically

in wind camouflaged against God-

cells, insistently propelling life

through subversion – old flesh

freshens and materials crumble.

II.

Frantic wind breaking in brick

alleyways as flapping plastic bags

swish, wisps drone like churning

saw blades – high pitched squeals

slicing through bits of air.

Frantic moon beams frosting grass

through gold and silver crusted cloud

gaps, carelessly blotting surfaces

like a spotlight – resourceful when searching

for those lost in darkness.

Frantic breath fog dissipating

like a violin vibrato against a vaulted

dome, hauntingly dying into silence’s

churning belly – void exposing congealed

ignorance of mass.

Frantic carnival merriment conjoined

with remembrance of lives once

embraced, holidays yearn for sporadic

wartime emotion – surmounting

misoneism flanks those whom are bitter.

III.

Endear city walks past girls

jump-roping over shattered glass bottle

remnants, froth patinas glistening

stained pinks and silver – scarves

collecting joyful yells.

Endear umbrageous buildings standing

monument to crooked worker fingers

callused, relics lingering for abuse

like sequoia trees – ‘under the knife’

undermines and accelerates.

Endear curses fragrant teachers

slipping cautious wisdom like sloths to

Buddhists, concrete slowness transforming

material to void – vicious purging

of insidious to tranquil.

Endear infant rats eagerly sifting

trash with tiny, callused, and embracing

claws, grasp remaining parcels and feast

beneath lamp light – shadow blankets

contrasting iridescent.

An Audacious Escape

An Audacious Escape                         

Now parked, I saw the firefly

ascending from my truck bed.

His fluorescent tube acted

as a gentle jetpack, a hovercraft,

an audacious escape.

Relaxing on rusty vacant bolt holes

previously used to clasp the cap,

he did not recognize my turning ignition

signified a twelve mile drive

down the orange-barreled highway.

He must have moved to a cozy stick

safely tucked between turbulent winds;

held tightly inside the air pocket.

Was there fear?  Being taken from

all that was family?  His family tree:

a distant dream.  Now a foreigner

ripped from the ghetto that his companions

and he developed together as larva.  

Hatched.  Took flight;

flashing their unique twinkles for females

watching in the leaves.  Conversely,

like a stowaway praying

inside the cabinet of a ship,

he may have executed

an audacious escape.

Slate of Orange (Winter)

Slate of Orange (Winter)

Under the first daunting slate of orange

I scrape the ice from my windshield,

my lungs ripping the last bits of moisture

from the air.  Finishing, the slate seemed to flash

green before blue subjoined then sustained.

She's arrived.  Summer's lost mistress.

Slipping in like would a snake a mouse hole;

unnoticed and ready to bite.  She threatens

the blue slate with a fiercely quantum increase

of slathering unsaturated clouds.

Losing doesn't exist in patterns of winning.

She'll win.  Her ice teeth loom on gutters

while children, clumsy in their bundles,

ecstatically drag neon sleds beneath; gleaming.

She's a vexatious howling beast.  Truly.

The electric-aluminum gray slate

lingering gorgeously like a wedding dress,

endlessly inviting, taunts just weeks away.

Driving through construction, I think

of my brother's passing.  January.

Mallet

Mallet

Hand carved mallet of mahogany,

greening copper horse-head bookends,

musty velvet wafting in metronome,

electric detoxifying of piano notes.

Whoopee!  Whipping orgasm.  Leaning back whirling

a big cab franc through smoky haze; notes stopping

as she capered off ivory keys and drifted

to the plumaged blanket hugging the loveseat.

Scribbled ink stained paper fibers,

tobacco smoke stinging eye under glasses,

journal under crumbling jazz sheets,

sheltie awaiting nightly cuddle.

Chimney Flue

​Chimney Flue

A crumbled chimney firmly blocks

the searing winter breeze.  A bit of yesterdays

paper flapping between chunks of mortar & brick

waved goodbye.  Jumping, a young dove tilted

and timidly caught a gust; the little black girl

with neon beads twisted in her hair watched

from her drafty window and wished

she had that type of freedom.  Seeing the paper

stuck, she thought trusting the wind

may not always be best.  In the alley below,

A bohemian sonata rang from the throat

of the hopeless street performer whose face

was painted like an egg.  A man

in a two day old pinstripe suit threw

three quarters into the performer’s wicker basket

walking past on his way to work

where unbeknownst to him his boss just shot

a load of semen into the new secretary;

a young man who freshly graduated university

with a bachelor’s in communications,

uncertain if he liked showing up to work early.

Time will never allow him to be anything

more than a sneeze.  He sneezed simultaneously

with the little black girl after blowing off

her mother’s dusty book; that old Camus called

The Stranger.  How strange her thoughts,

bouncing around like light through the glass

of her slowly dripping window, would came back

to the chimney, pondering if the air inside

its flue moved as much as the things outside,

or remained still, eavesdropping on the Earth’s

vibrant vibrations.  Then, back to bouncing.

Horns

​Horns

Horns of hartebeest inspiring the drawn heart

(tip as spine and curves as breasts)

were removed to use as tools. 

One: a drill plunged and spun through baked dirt,

exploding a hole of rusty powder

when yanked like cork of wine.

Two: a dagger feather wrapped with dressed hide,

flashing its sharply chiseled and fat polished

tip in the carnivorous sun, warning.

Naked skull, the beast skeleton looked more human.

Kneeling down to thank the dead; a heart

drawn where horns should be.