left eye view

I could do without a scrub

sitting on my giant square swing

that mediates between yes and no

and honesty abates

back to where the mirror on your chest

reflects the suggested desire

the fraudulent hums to the contrary

that raised finger isn’t really an impediment

it is really easily avoided

walked around

you know that reaction

anyone gets when they’re labeled

then don’t know its accuracy

an inaccuracy like a duck in the flying v

that trails off one end with a score of followers

and turns it into an n

that feeling the duck has probably shared

the screaming children yelling out the bus

with hair at square angles

defying the breeze and their bus drivers shouts

the sound of it as it hits you

your ears bite into it

processing, sorting, put through linguistic paces

imitations

If he can he will if he will he can with will he can can he will if so then he will as he can.

My poor attempt at Stein.

from this to that to this

Lit started it before art finished it off and left

Threadbare bones and thoughts like dirt stuck to a windowsill

No tyrant will have BAM! strong enough for that mess

Best to toss it out the window, but that’s been done to death,

Mine soul cannot abide the idea, into mine, then,

Wait … No, no, carry on, the cart can’t get off those tracks

Those dancers won’t break a rhythm, bye

Will get repeated two more times in the echo

And art still straggles in the rear breathing through its mouth loudly

Waiting for a weaker body to be left to its paint splattered claws

It wasn’t his idea but everyone saw it and pretended it was

Damn distracting colors and ugly pictures

Why aren’t they, yes the distant they we’re not a part of, fixing it?

Taking it to some sort of education that will make it know better

Like a kid who falls from his bicycle is aware

That riding with a ten foot beige ice cream made of,

The guy in the van said ‘dreams and Percocet,’

But its just berry caramel vanilla wrapped around an enormous cookie

Knows that that isn’t a great idea anymore, once, maybe

Ice cream melts and won’t break a fall

And lit always comes last when the murk of distance settles in for a sit

Staring at the wall as if there was something interesting on it

That wasn’t the voodoo mask of a Camberwell queen

connecting the dots

her normative stability rumbles incoherently
but then again, mate
... awkward ...
he isn't quite sure of his flexibility
and his self-consciousness undoes his shirt for him
ahh, and does that even make sense???
nup, but who is really paying attention???
we're just some random tentacle from the web
that doesn't have any connections to anything else
and are generally ignored in the uncomfortable mess we've seen before
even if we haven't felt it or understood it
or seen the system controlling it, which hasn't broke down
contrary to ashes, which is a nickname
with nothing, though, to do with this, just a diversion
a game of draw-attention-to-the-grander-idea
wait wait wait ... what was that??? the salt goes there!?

comic book jargon

We see the body drop

            under, probably nowhere.

            Someone's cooled on distance,

                        outside, beyond perception.

Under the glow striving to be,

                        as in be,

            being, belonging, having form

                        for our vision, some conception, maybe.

            This green could be purple

                        and shadows

                                    wherever they desire to be -

                        only shade and a reflection not behind her,

in front of the mirror, looking out.

Is it a window?

Or is it a bird?

            Up there.  Right in front of you.

                        Sad face,

                                    while he said it was ‘contemplative.’

founders

clay is molded shape

… the wood

chippings scattered floor

settlements rise (then shawls,

            in the crispy dust,

                        fly (looks to moons in stuck orbit

            the cough of a wheat field

            “what are they whooping? Get the maple!”

who? cities for two

points … rock at a premium

                        battering windshields

                                    sheep bawling whose lungs beat

            the day is won

With thanks to Ashbery and board games everywhere.

bliss

If writing is an artic monkey in a hot spring

then you’ve been to Russia,

shivering like a wide-eyed clock down too many cans,

outta battery

and asleep in a lake of sweet goldfish with silver scales.

They are chased by eels

glaring with cancerous molars who twist their blankets

till the doona is a pine tree knot resembling Buddah.