by Raw Doggin Stray Almondac
Funeral-thunder-odd
Jangle the air
with a
flapcracking ribbon
rigtied to a yewtwig
swungho! bouquet on the roadside
site.
The thunder flarks and flies with the last fallen flower
and mills,
mingles with khaki pants chomping dry grass—
lightning bolted
sends locked up fears flapshot caroming the ironglossed light
back to
slowgravelling cars and peelingeyes.
Hunchedbacks quaddle along with tennis
ball feet,
Slushing, sluicing through
gravestones
With tired arms and psoriasis skin,
Blotched, knucklecricked faces,
Anatheminiized,
With embedded streets dangling,
dripping,
stretched and wheeling,
from
cupped euphorphones greeling.
Night-lake-swim
For the sing of the dock over
moonlit wrinkles,
parked to the tune of rounded rocks, and skipping
over
jaguarjungled waters,
the mine has opened to canary jaws.
On the
darkbreezed esplanade
fiddler
crabs
scruttle
forth
from
sandcastle moats.
A flap and strap and leatherseat too tight to touch
Like a Drum Overbeat
Martial thumbednose gone powder awry,
Light like the hair fuzz on the bottom of a young girl’s
small back
and HIP-HIPPED
UP
And enticing dance
with bellyshirt
(loud) HENNA
(whisper) sari
(Sake bomb
voice!) KALIMARI….
Bumblepollenbeetrees
Bumbleharling pollenbeasts bronzingshackle
Shadowfoxed
the glove that dealt the
doubleblow—
while
frugal
pinkies of buttersweet
are
blossom lentigoes.
separacíon
En el jardin de los huesos oscuros,
Los abetos como los dedos tuyos,
Conmigo—con la luna verde—
De que dijiste? De
que te dijo?
Philosophophiloloblossomy
CONVERSATION UNDER GREEN MOON
---------------------------------------------------------
- “What
is our quintessence
But swatches of conversation
Snatched from cracks in groaty floors?”
- “Mein
amor, c’est paracusis, es todo.
How long will it take for our ears to,
Once again, become attuned to
the
Sound of our own voices?
Right now I am a dogwhistle.”
1.
“Approximations of our own futility
(wordstatistics), nothing other
we’ve
expressed, creativity an
algorithm or
sour lemmas unfit for living’s
motley
unfractaled dress.”
2.
“The simplicity of the household dust
Begs the craven and
fructate mind
Lie down, fold
hands, flake or husk as orange rinds.
Yet I would but
fill the mind’s attic must,
In cistern-words
contain, while fountains over-
Flow.”
3.
“Qauntity is overrated.
Numerous notches on a belt scar the leather.”
1.
“ Ideas would be such great things if only one could
put them to any
sort of real use.”
2. “De acuerdo.”
Sunrise-fern and fell
s
The sun ca c
a
d
e
d
down
the dewdrop
fern and fell
of lightleggéd velvet
greenlichen vale.
Hucksteryew (or
Personipunification), THE HUCKLE SPEAKS TO THE YEW
What is this injustice, this denying grief?
We are berry, berry alike, yew, I.
I may be a huckle, but I (in brief)
Edilberry fructate while yew twigs dye
Apothecary neeps.
In
steelystare of the “always” ground,
Goffering of the gossamer amnion,
Primaverdances
thread the
head’s down
lambence
and way.
Afterdinner-seconddate
“The only thing viewing time is
A lenticle,” he said,
Taking his shoes off,
Bending,
And Rearranging magazines on the hickory table.
She looked. She had
the sort of beauty which incites conversation
But which never invites it.
Sevré.
Leftover-winterwind-at-nite
A trichoid wind vomits a subcutaneous shudder,
birthing militant
scabes
steelbooted
and
filing rifle-angle
thru flesh.
Bulbous streetlamps splash orangejuice onto
weedcracked sidewalks,
adiron crennels,
and
a bluecast moon
the color of
adema
illumines a
flimsy
old biscuit
rotting near a
dust-leotarded cricket gymnasting
pinestraw.
Theology
Every angel is a devil who hasn’t fallen yet.
Surrealism
Mi espalda es una tortuga
Que caminaba las playas.
Journalism
What
moves at night but words
cut out from newspapers and periodicals;
Tomboys and tomcats are thatched roofs catching fire.
Two poorwomans’
variations on a Sunset
The sun set,
cascading down the vale. Its last
champing foams bursting flecks absorbed by porous humus and nightshade,
purple-pink curlews receded, pushing back thru the dead elm limbs, sucking into
vacuumed night. Cold, the night air hung
like a wet towel from after-shower skin, luminous hair compacted to her dry
scalp, clinging dog-close for warmth. A
scent of browning bananas elbowed thru the front-screen door, shaking hands
with the shelled walnuts and inert pommes.
The Studebaker, rusted, cycloptic, beached upon cinderblocks and plastic
tarpaulin, watched the routine, theirs, with a sad mouth, slack into the
dirt. Air mutters, some say, like
dancing homunculi.
The sun set,
cascading
down the vale,
with fire dancing,
catching tails, on diaphanous
nacre
pupils.
She rocked,
back to
forward,
her nails pushing old flesh up to the cuticle.
The cracked boards quipping underneath the runners popped
like scarabs in heat. Sound caromed
through almond shells, careening around cicada husks fervent, clinging tightly
to desolate bark and sap; the sinews branched beneath crabgrass, sprung in
patches like mangy hair, fingers outstretched, praying to Vadose. The air over the muddied asphalt hugged its
shoulders, shivering with fever. The sun, some say, swords the stillborn air
like fangs into an unchipped egg.
Memorywalk--Springlove
More sinister are streets walked in
very marrow time,
in strut and strut and walkaturnabout,
finding selves of our pushed against bark of trees,
feeling leg,
sigh,
kiss almost,
and
running up the thigh
when all is out
like afternoon dogs on topiary streets,
panting guilt like love’s cement-soon-to-dry.
Gaia
A
motherbreast
eternitygorgeous
whispers
milkelaborate
want
of
am-enormous-I.
Together
we were those,
wet & shake
of rust,
who manipulate
gardens into
waterbeds.
The-tie-the-time-that-binds
Time is an abstract
of pain.
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