Last night my words sank,, sank,, deeply into
the well of the oblivion, & flung,, flung,, my fetish
of new ideas away.
Stuck,, stuck,, I couldnt find the path.
My mind was a flaneur: I couldnt find the idea
Ive been searching since the afternoon.
I went to the sink,, & washed that glass where
flies sank,, sank,, sank,, in its abyss.
But the celestial idea remained remote.
I moved like a flaneur,, & opened the door,,
eavesdropping on the birds,, while all lines
Bush within a bush.
Like misty shadows
trees grow upward.
Leaves stretch in
The poet was there
trying to tease out
the mystic secrets
of the landscape.
is associated w/ a dream
it is stricken w/
a surfeit of DREAM
this rainbow emerges onto a hill
in the steady quasi mist
derisible hallucinations become desirable
funky reality protrudes
bolts of punk lights emerge
im still experimenting w/ words
im still searching for new words
seeds of newer dreams
a window scene
without a sill
I know I CAN write
a poem about it
the ventilation ducts
I wish the snow
would thaw away
shall i draw a meridian sun?
or shall i draw a full moon?
a sun like a delicious red cookie
a moon like golden gravel
shall i perish into the redness?
or shall i perish into the yellowness?
Or shall I concoct a theory of collage?
Those old abstractions. Heavy.
I hold to the surplus rain.
Too much (re)invention.
The weight of the burden was alleviated.
Moments of crystal dreams:
A tasty cocktail (not monochromic at all).
Hounds of augury stopped barking.
I found good tidings in the sap of an orange cocktail.
I only heard a cocktail of morning birdsongs.