Part 1: A public mandate for answers
The tabloids are grappling for the juicy deets:
is absence more tuneful than the glug of poured wine?
Fond-inducing aura of quietude, long swallow of mud
like an especially deep facial,
attenuation of time honeys mid-pearldrop, absorption
of timelessness opens the ceramic pores.
They’re crouching outside the excavation site,
vans gas-powering their satellites:
is the latent cusp of the vessel’s rim more the sublime untilted?
It’s common knowledge.
They’ve rushed the staked off gridlines, digging with their hands
who don’t have shovels:
are untouched curves more lustrous? more gleaming? more elegantly draped
to illustrate the lime-green buds pushing out the earthmound of springtime?
Common use makes smudges of us all.
At its bottom, dry compost to scrape the back of the throat with,
reflux the bracken of the gut, prevent nutriment—
as the Romans later would—
the breakdown of energy molecules,
ATP pulses too weak,
yet still the most efficient energy-creation system yet to be invented
by man or nature.
Part 2: Historical expectation reconstrued as a chainlink fence
the grid of separation is permeable
not as rigid as expected, not as stringent as perceived
what disallows entrance
still permits gaze
what disengages regard
still concedes mass, matter, the properties of being
this girlie was sayin:
gotta get in der, dat brain goo.
so why the lock and bolt, yo,
why the vehicular obstruction like a tank?
I ain’t yer enemy. it’s true
we accidentally brushed sides
and the rest of the block
you walked round every street pole, every sign post.
ha, how mortifying, I am that repulsive.
whatever you do
don’t let nature do its cruel thing,
and watch it wither slowly, painfully,
the caterpillar left alive so its innards can be eaten out for weeks.
oh, there was a peck on the mouth goodnight
cause I asked for it,
and you were too kind to say no.
agh, stop, you mofo,
stop makin me feel
dis icky thing,
bloodthirsty and primal in her cave, the parasitic wasp
who wants to suck you dry with dainty sips,
kill you a little at a time.
What matters is everything of which the brain conceives.
What doesn’t matter is everything of which the brain conceives.
Every thing that might occupy the rat race of neuron pathways—
the things of stuffness:
paper, pen, lacquered, wooden table.
Blue-tint of screen, digital graphics, word processing.
Things of not-stuffness:
affection, concupiscence, shenanigans. Discipline,
willpower, diffusion. Decadence, release, emersion.
Brain can’t not receive, can’t not organize
What matters to the brain is everything
of input and organization.
What matters to everything not-the-brain—
it takes little effort to note the universe could care less.
Part 3: Dear my dearest dearie who is emotionally unavailable
You look fine-particled in the aerosol, specimen
of this expressed as a wavicle by mechanics of
our interchangeable states—the static and localized,
the fluid and atmospheric.
You look finely sifted of cake flour clouds,
even dusting forecast of what point
and with what regal incline
hill proceeds as mountain.
You look, then I look. Then stop looking
acutely what cashoulda might probadefinitely
Drip of moon is curdling meantimes.
Unstick the shadows from my feet
would be the more productive,
for some result deemed satisfactory.
Cure Dodo’s suicidal complex is the simpler
whose very name means “idiot.”
You look fine. Get over it.
You look like Christopher Columbus,
commending the curious, generous native folk
so benign as to be perfect for the slave trade;
and I look with scorn
on those dunces like me ground-nesting
in plain sight. Doddling, awkward,
unable to fly. Who god gives wings
had better fly!
You look fiiiiiine, brotha,
hunky-dory, tip top, peachy keen,
neat-o burrito, A-OK, in the pink,
the cat’s meow, ciao bello, first-rate, five-star,
top notch, glorious, divine, exquisite,
supernatural, out of this world!
You do not look. I was pretending that part.
You do as do others and I would as were a
simple carafe turned stopper in the shadow of the doorframe—
that structure so many others are destined, willy-nilly,
to walk through with success.
Part 4: Exclusive interview of the poet’s adventure with an ancient artifact
i am an excellent speller, Katie. thank you.
i got good grades in school and
my childhood was idyllically untroubled unless you count
evisceration, abandonment, estrangement.
but i can’t focus on those times, Katie.
they made me stronger, but i don’t dwell on them.
these words, i must emphasize,
really are just how i make a career.
to block out a space
the accumulation of all experience is contained—
need and wanting
urgency and subjugation
smothering and isolation—
cryogenically sealed like the head of Walt Disney,
to be preserved that way, indefinitely.