I.
LEFT LANE MUST TURN LEFT: this call is the visionary’s version of vice; a visual:
Dear Dust,
Your philosophy flies like soiled canvass: it is not unclean nor clean, yet the time when clips arise from where all gods’wires attach upon, you neatly paint a beginning and end with WHAT must have been an unpainted pain clinging on, flowing through while driving over and thriving at the rhythms of lighted smoke beside and above the flow of your blow, dear dust find me the last soil the earth's lust last created: death.
I felt death: it rushes through your ears, jumping while its scream sweeps all tacks that fling upon your neck. I think death trails in 4-seated track with a double two-line queue of people, flooded by haste to feel too the death rush within their dead vein so the blood of which shall have sung this cloud's dying long forgot mood: indifference.
And no one knows who one is. This One Word Per Minute Poem For Nu is the visionary’s version of vice: a verse.
II.
This is the simple sonnet. She lies on her back. He lays down supine on his bed, the wind on his head, his swollen red mark from her mouth suckage is wet. This is a simple sonnet. She sings sea songs. He imagines the sea in the depths her tones reach. This is the sonnet of sleep. The simple slip of dreams in dreams of bells with silver coins spread widely down the bed floor with him and him alone. The hem of silence, this is their sleep in deference of judgment: the judge
then becomes the judged in the kitchen
I love the way onions caramelize. And how potatoes press themselves calm and cool on heated pan. And tomatoes on charcoal grill. And butter over battered pork. Lard-laid flattened pork like water layered over water, salt up on another salt of kosher, pepper packed in on paper folds. I love the way onions brown. And all the forms it forms my caramel: dung.
I wipe people's dung to eat dung-doomed food. For the lawyer, From the plumber: A Letter:
Number some letters in the sand and a human tongue licks your toes, dripping, dry and clothed in dread the wisp the action makes happens to be a flesh, an absolute white with wet hair cut down her neck, dry brows stretch to her ear lids that, like numbers, pitch only a tone when a geometry is pattered on the light's geometry, drawn in color the dead dawned evening she walks by night. Number the letters in the sand and the woman of songs answers you this positivist absolute, where A=tongue and B=light and C= the margin in between the pause her vocation creates and this distance whose one side of which is crawling toward just about almost anywhere only to find out in the end that the sand is her and her side sends the signs on which the grain of sand speaks smartly on her behalf: and as numbers die she rises smartly and marches head-on as she becomes an eternal version of reason: you know who you are yet
No one knows who one is. This sun in the year of NU is the visionary’s version of vice; a sodium beam.
III.
One solar soul to say you’re great and you’re done: you can now claim the sun. She shall shift the swing of the swift wind southward; the poets walk to where gatherings become the refuge of an art savaged by what dusk can bear, by that without which a planting dawn of carbon might just have been that which kills us all altogether in one symphonic photograph ticker: indifference
In deference I will kill the silence and make some noise; break this noise, point the teeth and break your neck and while your tent cannot make inside the lips and his mouth the area of spins, you may paint as well the beauty of dorms in this phrase form:
I see no problem and my research is complete.
Really I’m impressed by the way you move men to consume themselves.
IV.
And Joaquin says, And because of her lost jewel (a jewel dissolving into myth and the earth's mist), the moss would be greener on the walls; leaves brighter on the trees; fine air more silver; and the heart's pang of happiness more poignant, more complex, when, at the city's core, the city's Virgin rode radiant against this cold wind singing with bells. How different is that from pitfalls of rocket-fall anatomy?
Difference is biology. Either cut your hair bald or grow it to your feet. Maybe, just maybe, there is no identity: only a missed one.
So he says, I am drunk and missing your lips fighting against mine; sucking in pain and painstakingly sucked away by batteries' low point: come my sweet Zahir and fill my words with blessed bliss feelings.
Then she says, I don’t anymore want to imprison even a tiny irrelevant lifeless cell into desperate mode. I don’t desire something smooth from us save that afternoon smile which summons all old owes. No longer do I want to desire for love. For pain is its inevitable reciprocal.
And he says, should I go and pursue the telex moon of Cirilo and ride the catamaran waves under wet follies you cannot touch but kiss, should I first hiss the lightning sound and hush my voices shut and shift my tones to falsetto and falsify my truth in order that I can will my moves toward only you so you will move towards me without orders, without pitch, with no age, with non-entity, enmity, entirety of ego? Elevate and alleviate void and avoid love; but should or should I not now exclaim the telex moon of Cirilo?
But neither Cirilo knows who one is. This sun in the year of NU is the visionary’s version of vice; a strand of hair.
V.
I had lost your hair and had since from time to time hungered for its scent, I
lust in malice for the movement of your eyes, its up and down stance steps in synch with my cigar smoke's little crash ballet, I
die in your caress and linger upon your toes heaving softly what little is left of the fragments in this memory as ancient as air, I
lie supine across our little bed by the beach in this sunday's lazy drag parade as I notice an effortless beating in and out a heart so lost and torn no blood can pass its veins, I
so terribly miss your hair I confuse mine with yours. Hence I
strive to live a passion molded apart from a part of molded whole pathway or something elsewhere; something blue and without reason blows a blue mood of blemishing blunt bed point; something tone-full and dancing; dancing in a backward phase face, dancing as songs dance across the fenced pension home whose door like my state leaks slightly ajar, something sweet as licorice but fierce as liquor to which a smoke revels all its life in mutual mood; something material, solid and painted and painted solidly with neon whites, and scentful as faulkner's prose. Something. Something in between those items: we
Are such a hopeless parade: this chimed arcades hummed apiece against sounds hungered a many by deaf canton broilers; these javaed powders crushed like dams upon a cracked water-deck wade off my skin as though its pink watermark paints us a portrait; wait, we walk out masters and leave as slaves: Where is hope then? This is prose in morning propaganda.
Two hours past the early breakfast Joaquin opens a line again: Streaming fluid and dark in the white night where the huge moon glowed like a sun and the dry air flamed into lightning and the heat burned with the immense intense fever of noon.
After noon, after the second pardon my death still remains unknown: my nails speak babble; my cloth stripes itself a memorized pattern, my crotch itch in stitch that like blood reds outward as blue veins like love cleanse away its toxic fib. But what is fib but a pallid lie? What is lie but a peaceful comfort, and comfort but a denounced fib? The world revolves beside the point and I the fool remains in between the dots.
(dot 1) Your blank stare melts before me and as I drink its drip to its very last drop I have also melted so to feel what markings my flesh can bring upon these borrowed moves and stolen loves under bellies of hates and tears in some stolen clay pot. Melted and molten your eyes are a pot of clay (dot2)
Conscience 1: His clay pen cap drops. Love your daughters. Your picture tells me how much in this world I do not really need.
Con of science: Nonetheless I have so long been alone and unknown I no longer know how it is to be not.
But who is Rose? No reading is allowed. Papers bleach those newsstands with whitewash gray as no one reads its posted sign; though it had long been there since ages. And since no reading is allowed, I instead scream aloud to wake and call the loose plant on the lounge's desk by the station officer's bench only to eventually find out that its name is unknown and nothing unknown can be known and thus no reading is allowed.
And no one knows who one is. This One Word Per Minute Poem For Nu is his visionary’s version of vice; a woo and the man.
VI.
A woman and three oafs and a school of ducks hanging loose and talking flat in a language only women can wear are bearing signs my father seriously takes as universal portents for an unbearable transitive language glitch, and for the same unknown reason, his wife who's also the woman of my half-sister half-lover's long past dead aunt, becomes mad and moody and eventually dies with dry, unclead blood. Then the ducks walk away sad yet content.
I have been walking too much I no longer feel my feet walk. A church claps. Steadily the soldier glares at my hands as though I am his wife's other man. Or the religion that kills. Or that faith his son takes when he hits his head clean and grim as the dead rat's grime. Unraveling truth, the stranger fails to seam the last mustard note covering a glass shell in withered mist. I simplify. I beckon words and simplify again. Bored in brewing this last mustard seed, I point a gun to the soldier and gawk in some unhidden reverie as I call his nameplate and scream an imperative blow; undress!
I undress and pardon your death on precise excuse: teach me alchemy the old-crude way and praise me full-blown for the lies I’ve devoured in presence of Your sun and break these legs whose pale blood I drink every time the line a single lie forms blocks the remedy the alchemy of hearts dries the minute I pardon the excuse that exempts the reason why a day ends in this mysterious pause the presence of your son brings: rest is noise.
It eats me without noise to know I’m alive when your soul kicks off the last makeshift of death and lust:
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And yet no one knows who one is. Neither can someone gnaw the teeth of my shell.
VII.
Looking at some random faces, the whispers play a soulful remedy. A panacea of love, but maybe just an overflow that breathes an unknown melody that only through it a medicine is placed over my skin, under my carcass, lying beside again and time again the faithful turn from outright ache. In this sea of faces my heart slanders your name unpunished. And only for your eyes I know it’s an endless time to think that I have become your time, your minute, and your flashback memory. Immeasurably all those things pierce my eyes no matter what reckoning I make or just and plain reason and nuisance I mold with my play.
AND LEFT LANE MUST TURN LEFT:
In the year of NU
everything
distorts
and
is
d
e
c
o
n
s
t
r
u
c
t
e
d.
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Labels: Cirilo Bautista, Pablo Neruda, Sylvia Plath
It reminds me of the line of Jesse Eisenberg's role in The Squid and The Whale:
