Thursday, October 25, 2007

Cosma Akakiova, a Broken Nose, and Puppetry

My nose throbs as I type. I tilt my head
upwards and hear Cosma giggle. She's curled
inside me like a lap dog. I, at times, feel helpless
when I think of mother and what she'd think.

Blood and clear liquid runs from my nose. I called the student
nurse and she told me I was a "worry-wart". Easy for her to
be cavalier. She's not afflicted with a swollen honker running 
like a leaky faucet.
(Whine, Whine.) So to the good stuff. I went out with Cosma.

She took me to her favorite record store, Snatch Monsoon.
A great place! So much stuff by my fave C--- O---! She doesn't
care for him because he tried to score heroin from her in Topeka.
We took a walk afterwards and it was lovely. Night vanquished 
the sky. Stars were bright, no moon to steal their fire! I could
say more about an old bench, proximity, and softness. She was gentle.
Tired and pleasurably disposed, we hopped on her Motorcycle and
sped off. I asked her to take me to the Group Home where I work
to check on some kids. Upon arrival one child, 9 years old, an habitual
pick-pocketer, was throwing a tantrum. It's amazing how strong these
little creatures can be. He picked up a mini-refrigerator and threw it 
at my face. It smashed my nose. What a scene! Cosma's kisses saved 
me from beating the child and we left.
She dropped me off at home and sped away, peeling out with such
√©lan my heart lept! But I should've been wary. Moonless nights are 
ominous. Cosma veered left on a country road and accelerated to 
80 mph, feasting on freedom as her hair whipped like a mare's tail.
A few miles further she hit a deer head on and flipped off the bike.
She was thrown 400 ft, impaled by three branches of an Oak Tree.
They found her suspended like a puppet.

Monday, October 15, 2007

A Love So Deep Miners Weep Light

Miners' eyes
shed light
like tears.

So deep 
they rend
what was and
haul it up
to fashion 
talismans.

In darkness 
they weep light 
as she digs
into me.


Monday, October 08, 2007

Melancholia


Endless winter of dirty snow...

Stars, like unwanted babes, 
tossed down dry wells.

Our breath cold as glass... 

Touch unable to rescue
the life lost in speaking.

Wednesday, October 03, 2007

Deum rerum coaxant



The part of Joan of Arc will be played by
the Archbishop Clinamen

Herein lies an Oration upon Ethernity and the Surface of God

Dearest Boneless and Economical,



Proem:
May the toad that shits the sun diurnally burp cloacal night.
Wizened crabs click their fore-claws in accompaniment to
protect me from the rage of the Creator.

Corpus Nefas:
Ethernity is the endlessness of air. Those who experience breathlessness
feel free to pace in order to stave off hyperventilation.
In air we fall. Lightless and without solidity Ethernity is a giddiness, an ethical tumble
like the mines my mother warned me were bottomless and went to hell.
Ethernity is the loss of body and the life of endless breath.

Mitred and Azure:
I am granted the right of speaking of God's surface as Von Humboldt wrote of bizarre
Circassian She-Goats that pissed blue streaks in mountain snows because of my splendid
surplice. My eyes are blue as heaven. I see a Horse's head in the sun.
God is metallic. Cool and shear so that reptiles cannot cling to him. Daily, like a drain,
souls flow from His truncated vents......And souls that pass, the good ones, are taken back to
resuscitate Ethernity in the Grand Ball Room of Auric Aspiration. There He is malleable and
soft. Yes, Gold. And as Gold, inside, he exudes warmth, akin to the warm breath of lovers.
In closing I would like to exclaim:

HA HA!

In God's tongue there is no H.
AA
A=A

Herein we laugh,
forgetting space.


Endfinite