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