Good start then becomes weird

Please don't tell me how to
spell. I know it,
yes ma'am, I know it all.
And I feel great. Better
than the clean glass vials of country loving
in the tabernacle. My God is my judge;
no gown, no gavel. Perry Mason facin'
the barrel if he tattle: My Bod is the rage
no frills, just ballads
about his whom her what
that daddy thing daddy did it
nobody said anything
and it was fun being silent.
Gourds.

Observation on June 15th, 2009

Divine Truths:

Everybody rehearses their forehead.

Spears were unjust.
If you consider killing unjust.
Else, most natural. Sharpened saplings.
I actually independently discovered this.
At age 8.

So those were all part of the same one.

Things bled together sometimes. Like paints.
Or stains.

A potter bleeds just like the rest of us.
Unless it's Harry Potter. Then it's magic blood.
Which means that seeing him get into an accident involving blood would be like seeing the ghost of the Titanic sinking again, or a real tooth fairy up close--magical (suggestion: in both scenarios, one should not brandish weapons). But in this case, it would be magically bad--meaning the magic part of it would make it more tragic... ostensibly because magicians are rarer than muggles? But also especially because it's Harry Potter, ol' 'Arry, who is a legitimately good guy. His death and/or bloodletting would literally be tragically, magically terrible.

I usually don't use commas between adverbs. Why slow us down? A lot of verbs cannot be merely described by one. We quickly harshly find ourselves in a lonely planet, for example.

My darkness often obstructs my brighter lapels.

Dreamworks

Every time the ladder looks in at itself,
she looks in at herself. Everything is
proof of itself.
And in so imagineering oneself, they
(like the moon-body,) scatter
dust upon orchards and shave
as if rain were no detriment.

Yes, I've seen clouded villages.
Rainy tunnels and cottages left empty.
But where will it leads us? Where is
the grave at the end of the fountain?

We cannot say this anymore. It just isn't
true. We believe that the truth
is its own road. It follows its
own heart.

And if I were a vitamin, I would
be vital, I would orchestrate
every bodily function seemlessly [sic]
Mozart concerto orgasms would flow
from my bereft spirit like mosquitoes
invisibly (but truly) spreading disease.

As if there weren't part to this complex
machinery that we won't understand.

As if mud was brown and the sky was blue
and my paper is due Thursday. I read the
lemons like their color and the television
rainbows are all alphabet soup to me. Just do it.

& so on. The modern crisis--impoverished
gentility--this so quiet killing notion is a
false proverb: the ocean does not awake,
has not arisen,
has power we cannot imagine.

With our poles and electric candles
we keep trying to climb higher
(hipper we graduate)
the silk ladders
toward steel, impartial dreams.

I know nothing of the blanket but
the warmth of dreams.

We see nothing but the gleam of sparks
but not the heat released.

There are only two people in the world
that matter in this situation: the man-
grove in her forest skelter
and the other man, the mangler,
holding a leash in one hand and
a cocktail in the other. And yes,
it will be poisoned, unless we act,
unless we prevent.

Murder Soup

I am no stranger to melody.
In fact, I wrote them all.

In the white-and-brown doors
beneath the study I study myself,
coming to one conclusion: bats of
men playing sports -- years later --
will occupy my mind until,
at last, the end has come.

And so, putting it down, he threaded
the needle to the spoon in his hand
eating breakfast like a seamstress
perfecting her dad's cinema;
he eats, he weaves, he dreams,
she just stares at him. Is that
the waving of arms we required? She wonders.

Is this everything it was built up to be?
Large moments buried under shuddering
misunderstanding lament their subterranean
state.

Thus I, like a fossil re-animated, become
tonight's live-wire ghost.

Should we call the fire department, or something?

Flaming disco balls flank Wayne.

So I say, "Hey there, man,
I'm you're biggest fan. But, hey,
is this normal?" Gesturing toward the blazing orbs.

"Yeah," he says, his voice the same bullfrog croak that I know so well.
Finally seeing him in this flesh is overwhelming, but the strangeness of these fiery twins is disconcerting, almost pleasantly, because it distracts me from being starstruck.

"You wanna blaze, caspuh?" I don't know what the last part means but I say, "Yeah, of course, I'd love that," etc. To prevent sputtering, I close my mouth.

"That's all you gonna get right now," he says--acknowledging the flames--"but jest wait till we get into the booth!" He springs to his feet like a leopard and I follow him into the studio.

TO BE CONTINUED...