THE WHINING OF AGE
Affords. I do yesterday
to which I provided audio, and some number of pleats
I provided the whoosh in the ear
and nine famous. If I can still tell who really wants
to go with me, by that time, the banned will have missed
the line where it goes, no truer
than a slow pencil is the most masterful stabilizer initiated.
But by that time I’ll be gone, and I won’t have a swing
on which to sigh about it.
Youth, like a swing
sun-out against the blue
of the sky, horizon of chain
dripping watercolors in the clear image
for you my whore
am I not just a little farther out
and are we not at last interns
as Deleuze and Guattari are ropes in the mast’s front way for each other?
Even you who said you wanted to go
did not really say you wanted to go.
You hated me on purpose.
Then, sex dreams.
A dog named Bernard I guess
A Pope named Atari
Do you want the whining
that is of age yet also of youth?
Are you sure problems braid and stir pots?
ONTO THE PRESENT
A chance to maim, a sneeze to crop, a pizza
trained to the height of a spigot
shot, shot me playing
in the heart of a pillow with you huh
is it palpable or trained, I cannot tame the root - tooth - truth
but is it palpable or trained (and where is each saga
to be last for, to be trained, in each, at last for). They say we all are
born given the specific gifts and mall
air adapted lungs to survive the specific density saga
we are born in, or again, to be agrarian, whether
to be might, to be a mite in the weather. And by its smallness
perfect and by its smallness
trained. A coordination of instruments which via reincarnation is trained for each eventually.
A camping arrangement in which the spigot in green grass reaches toward the moon–that too, is life.
And the add-ons which surefire beg to gosh, you will be in drat also.
I am afraid
by my life
I have cornered you, or by speaking by
your life I have cornered you, thrust
you into that chamber where the right coniferous sound
ends you up in a different century hark unless the Droop Fathers
can speak, via passion alone, the blunt postprandial you who’s out of time and GI vulnerable.
Unless they can speak that into being.
They cannot crane their necks toward Source, for their necks
droop. And no crane means no manner or recourse, stuck
on gloss, stomach aches. I’m as wrong as a baby supping quotients
but at least I’m a dirge and my neck’s straight.
I’m a dirge? Yes, I’m a dirge. A song taupe
imbuing blank arrivals
in tunes of panic
in tunes of how come
in tunes I can neither prove nor draw.