Wednesday, April 30, 2008

Bird Calls; An Assortment of Colonized Genitals

The significant variable
ogled pink lifeguard
while mounting playground pillars-
A diagram of how
fluffy young rabbits sew
buttons to my overalls-
Time and time again
we bare it.

He begins to outline her
1-dimensional boxes.
She- raises her hand,
"your young heart reflects all sizes."-
(more like comments on experiments.)
The Lucille Ball of chocolate making
knits tightly around her own waste
to centimeter his comments.
They become
not a fan of manikins
and resort to testing DNA
strands of humyn emotion
Shallow
and
Counting-
painting road kill alongside
my aunt’s flowery name.

The dog came to the pool
when, were it not for
hexagonal grammar,
trains ran through its water-
where reflective resolution
would have emerged
rather than machine
ripping out any antlers
that may have contained
childlike innocense-
jumproping over the beast
beyond a far rested birdcage.

On the lap of a blue dressed anagram
we are "pinned down"
in year old look-a-likes
and the inside of your
stomach looks like holograms.
A trifle misunderstanding
of lips but too late nonetheless.
The soft place
shoveled oil and mirrors-
your sperm like whisper
caught the attention of. . .
is this what happens when?

So we move East
to find pilgrim’s rifle
laid an egg.
I thought you were using protection?
I fucked your thistle!
disciplining your thoughts on ink,
riding the pony
and then INSIDE.
The curves were cut off
and stacked upon one another
creating a tea like environment
and then placed inside a crib
to become the Mona Lisa.

The swollen eye regresses,
snipping it away is not
enough
to box in 1 2 3
cursive letters turn
to liquid as
grandmother types away
on her scrapbook pages.

In the womb sits a torn nativity
scene and a bird’s nest-
will these wooden statues
ever stop nibbling at
my farris wheel?-
I cannot "V shape" there feathers anymore,
this is your harps fault,
please sign language to me
that you are now kneeling
over a diagram of fish bones
and fins
It is the secret to our
H2O
and snail trails.

He or she are oblivious to
the womb sitting on the
train tracks before them-
it is hailing now
and burying them beneath
an old, haunting picture
back when food meant
paragraphs of humming.

If a vortex were to emerge
from the architectural weaving
of your hair,
opposite’s shadows might
blur and diverge
to a ladder much like
said’s pinky finger
lapsing over sun stained
carbon prints in the
palm of 8 year old hands.

Someone picked up an old
bathing suit, made a picture frame
out of it and called
"Bird’s Wings"
before dropping it into a bowl
of jello.

Is this what happens when. . .?

Trimming can only lead
to more stained glass words.
An etch-a-sketch of
a housewife’s summer
in the laundromat
so what about sperm?
It hails-

targets children who look too old
and unknown vowels begin to
swell up.

These train tracks cannot be
ironed out,
they are evolving past
duck lips into
a need for contacts.

She is now wearing their
blue lightning weeds,
unlocking grammatical
mistakes, unable to do anything
but underline.

Lantern’s skeletons creep
back to the womb to
love palm leaf ribs-
Was made to take-
Was made to
- of course
soft "woman."

Your necking is only temporary
The veins of bold words
blow hard on experts
until the scene contains candy
skillfully wrapped by the gorilla’s gems-
His belly now painted
lipstick,
wallpapers the
emergency room with egg
shaped No’s,
dripping down
to a smile.
Above the exit
is stain glass "Bird’s Wings"
and a heated image
of yesterday.

If I were to say her
pink caught your cat by
the tail,
would you still hammer out
the pieces you were building?

Something brought us back
to tinsel,
to glow-in-the-dark boomerangs
and bar codes
illuminated against red
fish aprons.

A letter arrived with a dash
through it,
guided by dislocated hands,
my colorful children
spell hunt while
eating aluminum,

backwards,

on train tracks,

while the doctor checks their temperatures.
and they too
become cursive.

If tonsils were to be
pushed back and made royal,
would private insurance fund
cactus fuel?
Wake up and smell the pink!
This thimble will only hold you
for so long.

The beast turns into glowing globe
set upon a vase of acorns.
Yes- I want your stallion
to say goodbye.

1 comment:

Alex said...

god DAMN that is a lot of poem.

this is fantastic though. fucking great.

people you should read (a start):
Frank O'Hara (duh!)
John Ashbery
Kenneth Koch
Ron Padgett
Ted Berrigen