Sunday, August 12, 2012

Sixteen Ways of Circumventing a Death in Spring


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
---------------------------------------------------------
  1. “What is our quintessence
         But swatches of conversation
               Snatched from cracks in groaty floors?”

  1. “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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