I would like to expand my sphere of influence
to include gummy bears, flutes, and broken raisins.
So torque, avoid the quack
bitching in the room you’re with.
It is exciting.”
No symbols are involved…
You cannot drink annotated water.
Tiny bubbles in the soap…
Tiny zeroes in the astro-turf…
(The telephone hangs up of its own course.)
The Kim Stefans sneak attack is now in progress.
Be not upset.
(Just velvety and dark
slashes and dreams.)
It’s all musicals.
Youth culture in zip-locks.
Here is the colon:
and here, its Happy Meal.
Maybe this is what they mean by television:
Brion Gysin’s spinning flicks… bottom-up bureaucracy…
Tracing lies against the pattern
in mystic squalls, conveying them.
Natural, of course.
To complain of no love
and then to make movies.
(Drifting into minis,
a chorus of NAFTA girls.)
With the largest of handshakes keeping us sound
again and again… returning to the same apartment…
Spilling out toward the coasts in sex drives,
every one of them (the coasts, that is).
Little stickers on the ceiling
some gnarly, be-acned kid put there…
or her, maybe.
You consider Nicaragua
(Pork chops and apple sauce.)
“I’ll be dead soon.”
Boo hoo hoo.
Sane as myth, he renewed his function with eloquence:
writing Tarantula over and over again.
In those filthy thirties…
the low-res screen capture habit…
the Cancer League Aggression Party…
the Gabriela Sabatini Intelligence Project…
“One doesn’t sense a personality so much
as a strategist.” I could almost write a poem about it.
Meaning: “Just a poem…”