"The words are already fixed in the storehouse of the memory." --Robert Graves the poem exists before the poem is written a small shard of gravity pulls from the world to its center wisps of passed and passing things and non-things as they pass throws off words and spins the written poem
Pressure Between crushing pressures at the centers of things and pressure-less vacuum, there is just this. Just this— this thin skin of volition holds our hearts within our chests and holds its beats in check. In check- ered overlays on all we see, the mind beats against the shadows that lie between. (We have just opened a restaurant. I'm averaging 16-18 hour workdays, and 4 hours of sleep, if I'm lucky. None the less, I will attempt NaPoWriMo....No guarantees.... we'll see how this goes.)
the way of the mind is levity getting always lighter and lighter for all these hundreds of thousands of years and now so far away it thinks its self a part separate it thinks itself to pieces and pieces its self apart it has thought itself into other planets, other orbits around other suns of thought other sources of seeing itself its pieces its self pulls it apart predicates abdicate and participles don't participate but dangle in odd angles of mobile meaning our sense of tense is tenuousness at rest while our tense itself is senseless tensile strength is useless for holding all this together
(…they make the same sound as turds when they hit the pavement…and I think they have the same kind of sex as snails…)
First they like to start with a bit of sleazy funk music, perhaps a little
You know, something to get the juices flowing…
…they bounce down
on their mutually constrained strand of mucus
blue things come out of the sides of their respective heads
as they entwine gracefully tangling
eh-eh-eeeever so slowly dropping onto
under the airy bed
of their copulation….
(or at least my wife insists it’s a “she” even though they’re hermaphroditic
because “she’s” the one left in the wet spot while “he” has kissed and ran
….well, sort of just slurped off)
snips off that string–the last severing act of their
drop of lust.
Yeah, I was too.
But you couldn’t stop watching either, could you?
It all takes about 18 minutes or so.
I have 67 glossy, digital, time-stamped images to prove it.
I keep them with my etchings.
Would you care to come up and see them some time?