Avoidance

I’m observing napkins fall to the floor

like one giant and easeful mental collapse

soaring inside a slo-mo judo kick

inside a conditional liminality

which allows for comfort anywhere

What’s the analogy

An injured bee crawls off a needle

onto my thumb

in a vacant Walmart parking lot

and flies away     It’s wearing

four tiny sneakers   All I can say is

help       The bee turns back and climbs

into my ear    I’m watching you it says

Thank you I say remembering that morning

being slumped in a chair

when a runner passed the window

and my soul tried to leave

Sorry I said to it

you’re stuck with this piece of

counter-culture right here

Come on and float within

the hole of my structure

Let’s get dead as an after-party

I said to the soul

let’s become that bee of poems

and fall inside a bigger space

where the sound of a level one

organism is that song

Requiem for Dying Mothers

which really brings it home

I’m going to use the word angel here

All this goddamned floating

and still nothing hits

Can I just get taken down

and into a new information

able to penetrate through my foam helmet

This is a love poem requesting

that we not be bee’d and nectar’d into holiness

I want the person stuck underneath the staircase

of your brain     I want

Everyone and Everyone

it is almost certain

that I love you

and I’ve got nothing to be upset about

It’s just that all this waiting gets me anxious

Cave Logic

A phantom carcass of light is inside

this old t-shirt   A crystalline car

is smashing beautifully

I am very calm and unused to the new way

of eulogizing the Dark Lord

I have dismembered romantically

Arcana is in our midst and yet

at the grocery store I am bound

by chains of fruit inside thought-bubbles

disappearing without knowing

the true source of any origin

*

There are garden tombs containing real life

and I’m afraid of them

There is garden dust which remembers when I lived

as the rain like a cowboy at the peak of his life––

I’ve been exposed

to rebel angels traveling back in time

discerning their beginning form

despite the climate change crisis they

propel to the base of the earth

and snap back like a song

deep inside a cave

No one is afraid of the angel

who sweats a little

who dive-bombs the dead earth

like a savior on fire

like a martian exiting the real mars

from inside of the mars we think is mars

waving a flag with pride and not surrender

having no orifice to see out of

and moving just the same

like a drunk mother at the edge of an ocean

who feels the angel wearing a leather helmet

plummeting from the sky

and so swims out to the angel

the angel being her sister

having traveled from Florida

How does anything happen?

I dug the leather helmet out

of the risen grave   set it to sail

like a shrunken token passed

along an invisible line

There is no water here but something billows

inside the glamour of a basic function

The sequined triumph of looking up

the ephemera of spirit tripping

along the sidewalk   unsure of how to present

As such everything is visible

The spirit under the wheel

asking to be less and less

until it knows what to do

asking how to stop

a feeling from giving you what you want

Conversation in the Robotics Room

You are a myth without reference. We high-five un-ironically inside the evolution device. A lording human body made up of all human bodies shakes its fist at the sky. We’re high-five-ing with our free hand. The body hurts but no one feels dead.

*

Nothing is as fashionable as the divide or the lust growing inside me. Watch me disintegrate behind the glass. The man and the woman fall inside a big hairy hole. The man is eating phantom brains and getting punchy.  The woman is very good at becoming another thing behind the glass. The woman is glass under glass, inside the hole, which is like being a country-less government ransacking the universe, while the universe only ever sees itself, violent and expanding and hungry for pleasure.  The woman is the poem, present and unreachable. The man is inside the woman, also unreachable.  The poem is also the poem when it sees itself as the donkey in pearls, when it sees itself from the perspective of the pearl as being inside the eye of the donkey, afraid it may only be a pearl.

*

You stream in the mind. Archaic models of the ways you once functioned blow though the device. You yourself, the apparition appearing among them. HomeStore emails shiv the cloud above your bed. Your dreams are dusted with a quivering confetti made of old money. The pill is a slow-release across the spectrum of solicitation dependency. The confetti is a sad whisper falling inside your sleeping mouth.

*

Feeling foolish in the rigid cloud of your being will not cease for you. You were an impulse purchase. You are a blinking light inside the boarded up soviet-era warehouse. You are a beautiful blinking baby in the extraterrestrial landscape of post-indulgence. Your creation immortalizes time. You cannot be decided against. Your creation is a salvage yard. You are enraptured by plasticized isolationism. You are a blinking light within my eye. My eye is moving away with you. Slowly we are making our way to the New Order. We are in love with the computer-less sky.