mechanics of the grand scheme

There is still life in
your gaze
clear and arranged
yet spotty with doubt
and dull music

Yes I confess
I’m Jupiter
a subsuming gravity
protecting rooftops
for dinnertime conversation

but what form is
this continent
and who altogether
killed and survived?
Was it dirty quarrelsome men?


Welcome now to the museum
of lips and kisses
the why of morning
the how of night
the substance of daybreak
the texture of dusk
rooms upon rooms to explore
may I see your tickets please?

Gas pedal

this morning
I was turning pebbles
over in my mouth
they’d click against
my teeth as I
danced slowly with
ancient annoying thoughts
involving telephone calls
and people reporting
with certainty that
John Ashbery
would be unable
to save humanity

Do you remember that certain
curve on hwy 1?
papaya and melon?
sticky beach-side conversation?
for ages we’ve had the story wrong
you said papaya, I said nothing
you said melon, I said hang on a sec
if we could just get
in the flow of that
one stable summer again


contrails are not poisoning the atmosphere
and Seinfeld was not too edgy

the endless skirmish
smothers the infant
like a Central American

I see intimate paragraphs
killing war
and love

Therefore if I should
snap the branch
landing heavy
like a raven
or braid death
in the ceremonial
night shift
please relieve me

The worst isn’t over you know
flourescent lights
still hum
in the morgue
and kitchen

winter kills purpose

bones inquire

clouds swell

there was never a chance
for place in this
ground fog and fire

nakedness is a
blind syntax
not a home

it’s nobody’s fault
it’s just the mechanics
of the grand scheme


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