Turtle Soup


I am a book writer. I am a sign man painted on the walls or standing metal grates, like a wisdom of human architecture manifested in ant hills and scared tactful men. I put the language before the honor, the subjection of my re-compositions is organized in certain free-roaming allegory categories: here is the saucepan of my desires.

I am the book that writes itself, whirlpool driven and without restraint from end-to-end, measured in colors and deceptive patterns, no longer required to speak for itself, nor even to say anything at all, but to speak with silence if necessary, to weave transient moods like a burning flower - the itch of correlation becomes unbearable until the whispering tree bark that is my skin begins stripping into paper

There are hoards of books that have been written without me; there are human beings who suddenly cease to exist just as I have. The stones that make up my coloring are worn from the centuries of waves, crashing and falling, the white sea foam ragged and reaching its spittle, the algae blooms and sea-moss glassy and flesh-like, popping urchins in the tide-pools breathe with the hiccups in my eardrums...
I am not carved, but inked

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Another Haiti

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4am

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The white Orleans in a stern tome [bald cypress trees in the south]


didn't that tome just speak to me?
I thought I saw it gesticulate, but that could
be my repetitive muttering patterns,
and I did not prepare to be wildly
flinging my ears to and fro

in long-sunken passages

of speech from a book so old and comb-dusted...


interrogatory inflammation of my pineal glands
and the central nervous system stifled

but staring into space, indeterminably
wicked and weaved out of wicker,

standing in still water, breathing pneumonia,
adenoidal fluids encompassing -
wisdom-bathed macro-retaining-walls
of the larynx interfacing sanitized
fibrous materials - against all odds


the thumping rhythmical timbre
of bone sockets aeonian, unceasing,
unwavering in the williwaw of my digestive tract,
I'm the most ungracious wind cheater,
the tyrannical farceur of facsimiles or facts,
sporting dogged-coat-lengths as my trousers,
and cold strawberry-tint and twinge as my jacket...


didn't that tome speak to me,
in unknown tones,

like a high-squealing rabbit
I chase through the swamp
or some razzmatazz rascal
whistling dixie

through coughs of thick mired
firewater,

the third generation of a creole barbeque

under the wrists and knees of a sinking cypress,

hot coal manure in the ground, dumped with the

hands of a mad-tracker bent greedily on his own re-cognition,'he'll hit whole waterholes like the depths of hell'

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semi-pneumatic increasingly articulating tree-slow speech

"Hence either `the present King of France is bald' or `the present
King of France is not bald' must be true. Yet if we enumerated the
things that are bald, and then the things that are not bald, we should
not find the present King of France in either list. Hegelians, who
love a synthesis, will probably conclude that he wears a wig."

have i asked the right questions? have i stolen a bartered breath and tongue
am i a maypole crucifixion a demurring murdering bird
blinking one eye, thinking the world is thinking
it's winking? did i walk to the corner and back
did i fill the sink with ink and dip my crepuscular
donuts into shadow soup? do i know
the contour of bigotry and did i use binoculars
to find out and if so, where are they now?

predilection for predictions and suspicion
perambulating plato's playdough plateau, a pillow
for your thoughts? she asked me but i forgot
i was listening, i baked a connotative cake-layer
with syrupy-yellow bumblebees bespectaclbly suspended
buzzing blubberscotch bubbles, mumbling
parsimonious vocabulatory vaccinations

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Zeitgeist DC

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xerotripsis


Fire lame like tirerubber that yearns for the moon to fall and the darkness of the night to cover with cotton warmth the empty street patterns - pristene diodes that breath are behind the bricks, and sculptures turn on circles beside them
-
i collect wicks,
moments of wicking my hair
with sticky lemon balms,
'mildew' and 'methuselah',
confused ancient writings,
like cicero ingesting magic mushrooms and watching the surf off of Thessaloniki,
or early recorded masonian rites, these thousand-year ceremonies on a fuzzy metal plate, spinning and spinning in my closet -
like the old tire marks on my walls,
and beer cans stuck to the ceilings,
every year of u.s. army playing cards in crooked stacks,
existential philosophy books partially burned in a haphazard lawn fire

-
crazed madcap
, like a diamond in the rough, wrung and scraped rashly raw against muscly asphalt, the sanguine carpet of his flesh looked a ghostly shell of itself, so rouge and pastel-vibrant but no whole
with simultaneous scripts reading out the scenes, he ballet-flexes his way through the structures, until the wind soaks his hair, and the waves go to cloud-dust

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bluegrass pangalactic

Went to a planet one time
giant crabs everywhere
like samurai

jaxk gradually get
a sense of what we get to do
other people have called
us brutes
but we are explorers now

What the two people got
to do is hold the civilization down
that's what's on it's way

when it hits a switch
Get this planet conquerable
when you sign over
this civilization

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on the necessity of historical foundation

he told me i have to have a body
oh boy he said, you'd better get yourself
a body, lest you left dust-clouded gathering
like a sweeping arm of dance collecting invisible
reeds. i was abashed, because the hurricane
had already passed (i didn't know it yet)
a house without walls is what you'll be
he said with a small shy smile same
as a beast of burden, the last laugh
of the ass, long-distended ears
gold-laden with secrets, whispered
contracts, debased metals, serendipitous
phlegm (a rarity, indeed), exhaust
trailing tears of the trail's exhaustion,
flotsam in broken barrel plagues torn
you'll be jettisoned without a barge
he said, festooned in bulbous barnacles
just like the ancients, tripping
on mushroom cabbage, sipping,
from his golden horn, pustules,
primitive accumulation, thickness
of his own bloated tongue
swallowing bilge-sand
farting out a classic.

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Rome moving upriver


One day the city moved upriver,
and claimed all the land around it as its new conquest -
it spoke with long cylindrical pipe arms
and a skyscraper neck,
it caught birds and spiders in its automotive fingers.
the rubber smelled like ghosts,
when the anthill was paved over -
the city's nose was a tunnel for traffic,
on one end the marble gates of the library,
and inside the nose-tunnel, the cathedral,
with synaptic tombs
enclosing age-old dead thoughts of the city,
if by chance one made it to the tombs,
the millenniums were too grossly different -
the thoughts were too powerful in their strangeness.
So the city's paved nape grew quiet.
Palm gardens were left to fester,
the city moved upriver to root
its piped ankles and concrete arches
in a fresh soil -
the eyes of the city were spotlights,
anchored by steel platforms, and a skull
of glass.

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