El Dead Tone

O, elated end (a needle-dot on the horizon of my heart),

I, a tended Leo, evoke you for this end-tale ode:

Adventurers of the spirit, eat old Eden's fruit and hear

el dead tone, for it has sounded betwixt your embodied

bones since first breath and will continue to crescendo

until triple(tympanum)forte bursts through your weak,

fatty encasings.

And out will bubble your bloody deeds, aborted dreams,

fragile-hearted fears and soporific tears; you will bathe

in your bad boiled eggs and their hatched monstrosities

will surround you and (at last) you will see them (finally)

you will feel them, hollowed, you will hear their horrid

hiss bellowed cry- el dead tone!

But rejoice, for there exists no late deed, and now,

having seen, felt, and heard this our song you are reborn,

brought back to the oh so vital moment so that you might

act anew and fill yourselves not with flimsy notes or

half-drawn lines, but with life-increasing winds and waters

that encompass the earth and deoxidize dull minds,

so that when the needle blackens the bulbs that are your eyes,

you will shout triumphantly, "Done!"

elated.

so many tweets

so many tweets

i must be surrounded

by birds

needy of talk

as they once were of worms

mouth to

mouth transference

(people used to do this

with words)

now files fly

pushing nest eggs aside

cracking

ideas contained

once by great minds but now-

bird brains

tired encounter with the dead, green, tiremarked obscenity.

(one) praying in dimension number two

still, stuck stilled dustcrushed filled fuller still with nil,

enough space not to slip hand's narrow nail

to peel meshed like wet silk wings away

from paved mentalities, poor mantis (day).

floccinaucinihilipilification

it's not nothing

poenas dare

a fear of mine: the daughters of Danai,

having husbands murdered each his wedding night,

are condemned to carry water to the well

and to the well back to bring water again

unable to contain the wetness; contained

themselves. this their punishment

for so brave a crime: to have courage withdrawn,

to lose life never to lose their minds.

if ever chains I deserve for all time,

let them be like those of Tantalus,

so suffering I at least may feel alive.

I yearn for the precision burns.

Fortification number one:

Keep my back straight; butt, clenched.

Steady now, hips. No expression, shoulders.

Knees overshadow toes as I bend not, squat low.

Muscles bulge, floor gives propulsion.

Breath shortening. Feet rising as I

learn (to contain the fissure in my bones),

to dance.

To dignify my actions with practiced art.

To act gracefully without second-guessing.

(Doubting oneself causes disgust in the onlooker).

Looking good is irrelevant; self-trust is trustworthy.

There is no movement, for the moves were there

already; no direction, for that implies

two- the mover and that which is moved- and

I am

one.

my lips are wilting, like the rose i keep

pressed between my heart and my memory,

parched as parchment that has no words or ink,

nor anyone to read it (nor would eyes

be so bold); for my lips are dangerous:

they speak with an open blood wound- they glare

like the yellowed orbs of a gang of wolves,

and snarling too, my lips hunger for rare

rare love; to pass parchment again, with you.

carouseling

We are all socket-swivelers, focused

not on anything in particular,

but on a well-hidden and deeply set

(description evading; innately felt)

and extremely vain -------- curiosity :

to swivel and to stare, at space itself (!)

There is no compare to our silliness.