the surface of a melting delimma

 -title stolen from justin bushey, artiste esq.


this third world second life
is a freakout to the maxi sweet and this machine
has hijacked my page.

community chat in the corner
sponsored by name brand on the left
ubiquitous but not banner add flashy.
i don't understand why madame n
doesn't have them. i am just about

out of carosels to ride, told love
i've had enough enough times to make it stick
bout time to ride in a boat when i wanna
make a li'l shim in the sauna, let slim shade the ganja
if i could find such an animal in this jungle
full of thunderheads and mixing boards & derivative stock bundles

scuze me the cats are gettin rowdy. gotta go kick em
to the porch, which is first story trailer park chic
incomplete without the complement of pussy
lounging on settees, lunging at the trapped dragonfly
hung by claws in the crosscut of the silver screen
ripping self satisfied as gravity grabs the kitty kitty's tail

time for the mail. or the male. no, the mail. bills bills bills
buys buys buys, i see you, sneakin up on me, making me want
all the little gewgaws wrapped in your pages, or the snap
of new thongs , the grip of new tongs, new toys, boys
it's the beat of the gong. guess i write a new song.


at the bar i order fish n chips, malt
vinegar. the artsalive troupe, music divsion,
is about to perform several broadway songs way
way off the archetecture's lane. twelve hundred miles off.

nathan's mother sits in the corner, downing the fourth
wine of the evening. i got a wine cooler. i'm waiting to see
if she'll tell the story of his birth again. nathan, himself --a trained
tenor in the style of bonnie irish lads--belts les mis lyrics
to a spellbound audience.  i guess i'm just not show biz
this style of music reminds me of junk rockettes
black and white lynichings
irish famine
ill
i take a breather
outside, sans a lighter, notice washboard abs
sufer hair, hawaiian shirt tanned and oh my
i wonder if the actress with pink hair
is his daughter or his lover. these days i
assume nothing. it makes for awkward moments.
  -+







  file your nails to morcheeba burnin
on the cd in the pipe
line   yesterday's music singing on
today's bottom line.


yes, i said singing.
it takes me days to eek out a line or two
my fingers snip pieces of sentences out
change ofs to ons and so of


ambient music like you sold me on
the kind you never liked the groove of
too mellow, you could fall into old age
without ever having lived a youth.

the kind we tumbled into
hammocked on the atlantic's tropic beaches
where stars travelled millions of light years
just to reach us. so here you are, you cat you saucer you
dispossessed seeker, hoping to avoid the decay
of the atom, the random firing of the not dead ray

the kind we built out of melted clocks
 when we were music and dance,
seeking a sweeping  swirl from the center
curl, a cue designed for rue and school patter
degree.  ah me. this has gone on for days

and still no end in sight.
tomorrow, road trip
to a place we were not
together. cure in sand, surf,
sufi pillows and tiki bars--
or maybe those chains
you wanted to bring to darkest
mars and robot passivity, the first
visit from an ekumen cut short
by imprisonment and death . but
the neighborhood's big, harbors
more all aloneness than a catholic church's votive,



















(*)*


the subject tonite is worship
what is the nature of this drive to give up self to greater.
to join in communion with something bigger than you

to give at its simplest, worth ship to something
says the online dictionary, my own authority when it comes
to etymological affairs. it seems time's speeding up, just
like you said it would coming down to the finish line
so i can't make all the classes i thought i would
since the professor here has yet to dismiss this class.


just what are we studying? a portrait in release
the serrated edges of a steak knife poised
over a shredded tendon's thread. respect and devotion
of the pillow's caress, the prayers to thy will
be done.the way your problems leave you
in  dolphin blown air bubbles and diego's smoke rings
rising up to the basilica's dome, incense sweet
coverage for the unbearable light.

worship. give it for da gods . amen.
in old england your worship was a form of address
for mayors and other officials. indicating props
givin up the respect. nowadays it's all about sacred.
do you remember how i taught you to worship my
body? its years folding along a taut surface, the river's
passage marked in my carved banks, the scalloped sand
of my soft bed, belly curve caress. but you wanted

something sharper, a stick in the water, in your eye, a thorn
in your rose. drama as a substitute for worship's passion,
something to do, for christ's sake, it's too damn quiet in here
so you make a mosquito song and swat at your self.. lie

like hurricane over new orleans
 violent and overwhelming and true
to the shaper, the shipness, the exactitudity.
of the storm's rise and fall. sputtering out
coming back again, counterclockwise blown
on course and off again, bi directionless
a compass without a pole. i get dizzy, ask
for higher waves, to drown in.




worship. devotion. idolization.
come on man, just, respect yourself
cuz i see the observer in you
watching me playing detector here and now
whilst on the other side of the galaxy
in the mind of some writer, a different story unfolds

dead bee pollination

so whatever. rejection begins to get

interesting the more outre the excuses

become. but we're too much alike

is the argument for poles and the spaces

they push between them. always circular.

the ant travels in a straight line between us.

bites us both.



who is this you're bringing tonite?

the flavor of the week, comes with aDd

sprinkles and your own spork. dig in.

maybe you'll find some things you aren't

exactly alike in. then run like hell, out to the green

putt a penny in the cup and wait for magic

to materialize. when it does, tell her

compulsion dropped a dime on compassion, now they're both

headed for choir practice, wearing hug me shirts, a recitation of continue.

early july, 21st century

irrefutable artifacts of futures we never had



from the broken trunk under a massive bannister:
a scrap of paper, printed in dot matrix

"...by definition a player
is a man who manipulates women
to get what he wants be it sex,
love, an ear to pour his boiling oil
into. i can wash you out of my pussy easy
enough but it's been hell trying to get this stain
out of my hea..."


from under the same trunk, buried in a layer
of dust bunts, a photo of the time
you and i and the kids went to maine, your eldest
sick on lobster, the youngest with root beer
in his hair. the woman who took the picture
thought it was odd, but the boys insisted



this was the way they
 wanted to remember
 us together.



inside a sewing basket
at the top of the bedroom closet
a lock of hair from our son, embroidered
on a tablecloth, in the shape of a jellyfish.
he always loved the aquarium, the icy
water of the touching area, billowing
like sun he'd say, daddy look,
the sun had babies you couldn't tear
him away from the rolling tube
where the filmy bodies roil
trailing fireworks and bits of smoke
leftover from july.



we didn't have a daughter. we had three daughters we had
no children to save these things for, just the cats, there was no
we, there was i and you , look here, this small sand castle
from barcelona, like gaudi's it fills my eyes, how we stood
on queque at the entry, remember the group of small school
children, in uniform , standing so still we thought their teacher
must be a sadist/control freak, you wanted them to laugh
so you began to dance like st. vitus, this castle, our castle
melting into the next moment










a shell from the sands in tahiti
a sea grape leave from the entropy motel
a post card from your life to mine
a slot chip from that time in vegas
a sailor's knot tied around a barbie's wrist


i open the boxes, pour the contents
into a glass bowl big as mind.. the nevers
fall like marbles, river running over gravel,dried
roses rustling in a breeze.




__________________________________________________



























shoebox of taboo






all these reasons you can't be her boyfriend.
she doesn't understand. you had a sister like her.
adopted. familiar. she makes you dredge up yesterdays
then gives you a tour of the facilities. you begin to think
you should have taken the bus with jed or at least
followed jayjay out to las angeles where the women
are hot hot hottest.  his ex is out there in her skin
tight asian java slip, making some rich guy happy.
that could be you, in as little as three weeks.
all it would take would be one hit , one right
strategy. necessities would take care of themselves.

she's pretty sure she'd more invasive
in any other situation but every moment
a bon voyage is beginning to wear .
she wishes  you'd either leave or unpack.
jackson browne is looking mighty young

on the you tube,  hot virginity stealin mojo
captured in your youth, now 40 years gone
but oh , these days, these days, everyone's
living avatar. she sings in quartertones from
your doorway. it's the first year of the second
decade of the twenyfirstt century.she breaks

up during the third verse. moving on. turns
the vacuum. it's clogged. again. things are bound
to be improving. unless they just fall off.
all her philosophy can be found in the movies
since they remade dune as a mini series.

but you're not really listening to that tonight.
tonight you're going to be ready for those fuckers
when they jump out from behind the rocks
and hit you with questions you promised
yourself not to ask.





____________________






__________________

the wicked's resting place if you drive by you'll see a woman under the eaves, with a laptop and butterfly wings. clouds hide the sun for days playing hermit is a cricket's buzz oxen jump at the sound of fireworks off in the distance where they can't be seen. phone calls go unmade beds unslept in ease dis eased. doves coo, children's voices teeter at fighting's precipice . you won't know whether driving more slowly  would bring  a scooter bearing sacrifice, but you're drawn to the possibility. something's quiet in the ocean just over the hump. quiet enough for thunder to make its bed.

____

_____________________________________________










apocalypse of the honeybee







death, inverted...
is that life? no ending
to spring forth from.


sigh. this is the problem. should i bury
the hive or wait for the queen to return?
only my wish stands in her way
a desire fulfilled in the careless way
of cats with canaries.

you say i've hidden my fear
it doesn't show, that i can't feel
the seven hertz signal. look
these five swords in my hilt
thirst for a duet, be it genetic
self preservation or a mandelbrot
hundredth monkey. i think that's
up to us to decide.

so let's work as a team, send out the scouts
find out where she's run off to this time,
and with the prince, no less. i've three
coins in my pocket and three egrets swim
silvery as minnows in the sky before the daily storm.
 .

in the past i thought we'd finished this play
the sets were packed, the curtain pulled aside/
the bones of the stage revealed.  looks like
everyone wants a redux, or at least enough of us
to make the manager open the door again.
the costumes are musty, ill fitting but
let's see if the strings still hold us in flight.


what ho, here comes she comes, shakespeare's
bloody heroine, all flash and surety, looking
for a challenge. i'm sure she'll find it, all dressed
in boy and apprentice. so ready to fight. in the right
she'll find the queen tonite!

of course she does and doesn't
the play continues each nite despite the ending
or suzy baker's front row wish for an alternate
ending. but it doesn't change,  no matter
how many evenings she watches
the script stays the same no matter how much
her daddy pays for the players to change the page
always , the same ending.
so she writes her own play.










catchphrase 53


i have killing on my mind
the fly is in still in the house &
mulitplying. shadow in the window
watches dragonflies in the bahaia
on the other side of the glass.
my mirrors are streakless. the secret:
newspaper. one sec.










i dunno if i killed him, but aimed my AAA
 preappoved hammer  at  his bugly fly eye
dragonfly taunts shadow.
 she hunches, crouches, tilty ears follow
the windblown insect
as i follow memories like a current.
 he says if you love me

you'd make time for me.
i think you were just
checking in.
to see if i still
feell the same. i do.
but stick around
maybe we'll remember why
methadone doesn't work for me.





*9




i'm doing laundry, skip the beach
even tho the oil will be here soon. it looms
like the tsunami of dreams, the big ooze
tuck in the cooze, snakily making a  cum line
with  a hundred billion bounteous black barrels
of dino flavo jism, now what's your ism, prison
time for the criminals/ get the handcuffs for the oil junkies.


o


that would be ummm
me










however, that's not now. now
is the ancient swallowing   of  water by the sky
sea salt on bagel chips, cheese dip scooped up
with infrared lights, predator aliens announced
in the movies instead of the news cuz
we like our facts couched in entertainment
we certainly can't believe the official version.

and you, you're about mad enough
to do it this time. not gonna wait
to cross at the galactic center and you still
don't know what love means. if you were
here i'd bake you a cliche. come on
you know you love processed food.













*(**


much later i've pulled some
weeds, planted some
grass, your door is closed, rent it past
due, what will the future hold for any
of us/you, me, you n me, he and i, but you
could be already dead, you want it so much.
i'll be cutting the heads off grass soon.
my mower's powered by gas
the new black. all of the plants i bought
at the beginning of this season are blooming
and you and i are, at best, a closed bud
with no knowledge of what sun feels like, unfurled.

hint of obligatory nobility

 --hector the crow

i can take any line
you make and turn it
hologrammatical into lines
from my head. a dune inspired
sand scape less like reunion
than thebic lit end of a battery powered
cigarete.  where's the harm

in that? you say
it's exhibit b so i do the math.
dayum dude i hate it when the moon
stretches this way. science full
reckoning, the ways and means
commitment. is it reduceable? is it

reusable or distractive, retractive
retactic, pull another dram from the tube.
i remember belief and those nites drawing
lines from the insides of time/chat bots r us.
what fun we had. question marks on verbosity.



but we like it, see? evolutionary dead
end of nuance. layers in braids , always 3
three, 3. i try to tangle your hair, asleep
in the double papasan but it simply
falls auburn and straight . pine needles.











*


i'm hijacking your thread. i hope this
all doesn't get erased. i do that
a lot.
































*




forgive me?





























*



cuz it was you wanted a nexxus
and the way lexus rhymes feels sometimes
like branding. but what the hell, sell out's
a popular frontier. right. frankly i take this stance
because i fade. i'm a fader. fa  a  ade duh duh duh.
maybe it's the weed. but srsly? not everyone
can be #1. not enough dimensions.

there is no try.
only do or don't.
did or didn't. i have come
to accept this at last.


we didn't. o here she goes again.
take it to the blog.  but srsly?
i think i'm done with your
  sciatica of the heart . yours.


just like before. perhaps only pain
makes me feel alive. i am vessel for dark
thoughts i cannot enjoy pleasure? child
please. touch me here. yes, and there.

o
that does
not
hurt.

































*(()*&