by Raw Doggin Stray Almondac
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
mingles with khaki pants chomping dry grass—
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,
With embedded streets dangling,
stretched and wheeling,
from cupped euphorphones greeling.
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
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 enticing dance
(Sake bomb voice!) KALIMARI….
Bumbleharling pollenbeasts bronzingshackle
the glove that dealt the
frugal pinkies of buttersweet
are blossom lentigoes.
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?
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
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-
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
The sun ca c
down the dewdrop
fern and fell
of lightleggéd velvet
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
In steelystare of the “always” ground,
Goffering of the gossamer amnion,
thread the head’s down
“The only thing viewing time is
A lenticle,” he said,
Taking his shoes off,
And Rearranging magazines on the hickory table.
She looked. She had the sort of beauty which incites conversation
But which never invites it.
A trichoid wind vomits a subcutaneous shudder,
birthing militant scabes
and filing rifle-angle
Bulbous streetlamps splash orangejuice onto
weedcracked sidewalks, adiron crennels,
a bluecast moon
the color of adema
illumines a flimsy
rotting near a
dust-leotarded cricket gymnasting
Every angel is a devil who hasn’t fallen yet.
Mi espalda es una tortuga
Que caminaba las playas.
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
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.
More sinister are streets walked in very marrow time,
in strut and strut and walkaturnabout,
finding selves of our pushed against bark of trees,
and running up the thigh
when all is out
like afternoon dogs on topiary streets,
panting guilt like love’s cement-soon-to-dry.
we were those,
wet & shake
Time is an abstract of pain.