Tuesday, March 15, 2005

[in progress i]

Ask not reason, Klytaemnestra, or probe
     your ice-pick through those multiplying
diptych grams. Ablutions rain down
          worthy patronness, the saint
between cleric and layman gesturing
          prosperity and war. Black lines
     border yellow, red and the white
poofy quiff tangles in a down-heaving
     brand. Shave me clean as an ice-
pick, pink soft fasten bulbous. Splooge
          mascara no good for eyes um.

Caractacus shook off his chains temple
      trembling in wooden blocks – lintel
      pillars architrave and pediment – a sauce
           of pureed white beans garlic
      pepper salt staining blue cobalt plate.
A stiff January wind whips the page from the
           reader’s hand, blurs over the
      microphones. I do not speak this language
well. I cannot read this second term.

      Spencer trends Dylan Andy Big Boy
      tangles of Nereia’s hair not sandy
and in my mouth. A cowlick consummation
      tottering over the steps and into
           the bricks, brought them all
      to what they assumed were their feet.
Vagueness, said Dr. R––––, is the upright man’s answer
           to the arrows and slings of outraged
           specificity. Pull me down another Meister-
      brau. Pull out before you do it.

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