Sunday, January 30, 2005

Inversions; Improvisations

Teasing
keys of post pleasure, roaming
            rooms of dirt leisure, flagging
mounds of hard pasture, failing
            (to mention something

to the tune of ditch.)

Rasping
granules,
spit.

I was in my mask    gasp    alpha and gamma,
what have you:
particles,
daggers,
belly eaters.

They swear to sink it.
They ask you to seal it.
You make a general call.
You sit still.

Older men
stink when they
sweat. Immediately:
what they ate last night; their detergent.

They sink,
          gain weight,
               sit down
slow.

We become bigger     not bloated,
simply more sure
of ourselves.

A charade.

I pretend.

A flight in glue:
arms, lungs;
extend, expand.

The big
attempted,
            elbows like pulleys
attached to jello

collapse.

We sign the line--
all hundreds
of thousands,
the same name.

               --cannot help
        turn the round thing seared

to the rough thing shoved
to that box thing aimed

at turning a wide, heavy, long

thing
into

schools of fish
swiftly
flee               wakes
meaning,
greening
effervescent toil.


Or,
I fed my fish too much.
They bloat like float
that way.

     He said to do it

I brought the motor
generator
on line.

You want it to come on,
hum all pretty
churn out evens not odds

          but I
     dropped
a line,
not a wrench

and they let us go
anyway.

One ran into a wall it didn't see.
There are no windows. Signs.

Just points like periods.
          Colons.

American lines,
meanders,
refuse to curve.


1 comment:

Laura Carter said...

"to the tune of ditch"

I really like that.