The Dirty Park / The First Boy

In the dirt park the boys would be at war with one another. In the mornings they'd awake and make each other lunch; usually tadpoles followed whatever could be dug out of the mud; perhaps cuttlefish.

Late-morning found them at the cinema, where they'd tug each other's heart strings and ask toward each other questions that were never -- and never will be -- answered.

At any rate, Raul was petrified. The evening meeting with the lizard was most unexpected; he wondered if he had done something wrong in the factory. Everything had been going so well! He had produced his alotted amount of sand this month; He was looking forward to attending the Aragon concert with his spider friends. Afterward he was to brunch at Charlie's (the castle, naturally).

When there weren't pebbles, there were unicorns; but only once in a while, as with the moon-melt, did the goblins begin their restive screeds. "Acorns aren't for eating," one would read, in the corner, angrily, but all the passers-by did not listen. They did not hear. They could not speak. There are no words for beginning. Anew.

Slits like spiders (think silk-road, Jack!)
are aghast bright-orange
& trumpets or containers of field
like the more rapaport
the morose apathetic crystal wear
sleeves of now-forgotten buzzers
and Kanamycin resistant bactoids
factoids and igneous white languid hues
Langston Hughes, revisited.

What are all these containers for?
I have already abandoned my feldspar
for something more sporting: a cleanly
knit wool garment that reminds me of
a sallow sloped out coroner, eating pasta
in his lower east side tenement.

Let's have a fuck party. I will bring the white teeth,
you the wine, her the cinema. CINEMA.

The cinema thieves

||| ---BRIGHT WHITE |||
   half-molested, cinema
thieves drabbled together like cobbled up
{mixed} where-do

HAIRS bright olfactory carpetting removed
like O-where do you fly, sprywar jackets or
day-glo limpid snooks. The black clackity
cracked bright cackles of jackals
and messed-out whitened stalefish.

The messed-out whitened stalefish
of that November eve
is what she remembered, what she remembered,
what she is a part of---------so like the snow
gloves she donned in handling her poor sparrow's
fetid remains.