What I heard

Young man,

you predict myself to my face.

Giggle-snarl.

And also, you may be right.

But, hush and do not assume

you just keep those precocious eyes closed,

precious.

Pressingly and curiously

like a street legal switchblade,

a switchboard operation.

Useless matter does not

deserve smashing

just a quick slashing.

Diamond cutters crying with

those backseat jumpercables.

I missed the film but

I want to watch the movie.

My cellular telephone

likes to automagically

Prompt me.

It told me, after I typed /i/,

‘don’t get internet culture.’

Howl.


Didn’t you k/no/w the anxious

(ancients) taught music

And, invented time

For others?

They were just counting to eight,

Again and again, and, it

Turns out that this moves time forward

And that this everlasting, temporary

Retrograde is the forgotten remembrance.

This time

The blue specks return at

this time of day.

Scepters of spectres.

Spectators of the Spectra.

Speculators and crusty prospectors.

Gold merchants running along-

side the train.

The Highwaymen will

see to

them soon enough.

Yelling: always pay yourself first.

The only people not fearful of

such speak

are snickering kids.

The immortal ones.

How old do you feel most

of-the-time?

The sun will set in the next

five minutes to five hours.

It gets

Tricky.

Pure Fools

I sit at the striped, canary yellow

No Canary Row.

(I never finished that book either, to be

Candide).

Now bemused,

Now nearly bored.

Now frenetic and feral.

My long-hand is no match for my keyboarding.

In this state.

Of non-sense,

Everyone is a poet.

Everyone is an idiot.

Everyone is exactly who they are.

And perhaps we are just dummies.

Silent until we realize we are they,

and, they are

Leftover

pure fools,

Fools.


Hush 0r howl

This much I believe to be true:

I make others comfortable.

Frequent descriptor from people that touch me.

It makes my eyes harden then go curious.

Comfortable.

Huh.

I do not get cold.

I suppose that is speculation.

I try to warn people.

Everyone seems to be cold or worry about it.

I wish I got cold.

Faded out of my rabbit-holes.

Fell behind by one miss-step too many.

But, I wake up sweating whether the weather is

February or july. 

But, I grin, now, and giggle at the very idea.

Behind this smile

That betrays a happy tear.

That aches in my stomach.

Of course, I could get cold, right?

This is 

Howl i silently howl.

The salt is gone.

Now, I see how large this place is.

The placelessness is almost too big.

Me and these ghosts make good company.

The chorizo finishes.

Eggs and a bottle of white

Microwave hood fan

Setting two.

Discounted granola.

Time to cut meat from casing.


An unused balcony.

The window with the looking-glass.

The other window that is looking-glass.


I drove the perimeter of a street festival.

Ludicrous.

People formed a line at the

Automatic Teller Machine.

I could have walked for my eggs.

But, the milk would

Have gotten spilt.


I arrive home.

My salt is gone

Summer Maize

I made my hair sit straight yesterday.

But, summer has its ways

Of sweating my scalp.

Salt and the occasional breeze.

“You should write about that,” said the girl,

Who stopped for a smoke,

About something else

Entirely.

“Thanks.”

Kind.


A little

Shock ti

Power.

Speak-easys and

Music without lyrics.

Talk of narcissism

And, I wonder,

Do narcissists know they are as such?


The dog was all fur, and

presumably

Sweaty as howl, too.

Fur ball coat

Dandelion-white.

The masters smiled

And said, “her name”

Meant /hair/ in another language.

Doubling the word

In affection and affectation.


Cars pull u-turns,

To go to the street festival.

They hold traffic while invisible things

cross the street.