I am not I

velvet strings of tattered tapestries
strewn over dirty windows create illusions
dancing lights waltz in a slow three
morning noon and night

morning noon and night

(one two three)

on the last beat the music stops
heavy air is sucked into the sky
as stars appear by lazy clouds
frogs talking in amphibian codes

(one)

I look at the division between
time and timelessness irridescence
sheparded movement sliding
me into you effortlessly

once the boundary fails
sun shines in darkness
pervading all emptiness
with graviton pulses

(two~)

I wish I could appreciate
the sun

but without darkness
I grow weary

(~two~)

the sun blinds me
and as I stumble
the heat rises

I burn

(~two~ ~two~)

the day dances
on a record player
skipping on noon

(~two~

~two~

~two~...)

and now
with no division
I am no longer I

I cannot even say
"I am"

Emerging Nightscapes

1. Three Trees

three trees rose from the ground
all of enormous height

the first was the oldest
outlasting the first settlement
below in the valley
long since abandoned and rebuilt
after biblically impressive floods

the second was the youngest
casting shadows onto shadows
magnificent redundancy
recast

the third came in between
and all matters
slipped in time
and disappeared

2. Adrift in Space

Trust me, there is no such thing
as a poem about trees. And no,
there is no wind in space,
everything just drifts.

Sometimes I wish I was drifting
through space. I'd breathe in
space dust and dark matter would rise
up and swallow me. The contours
of the Universe's vast skein -
twisting threaded particles
composed only of time - caress
the emptiness of thought.

I love the assault on meaning.

There are two paths of destruction:

I may overwhelm meaning with screaming

nonsense, erasing all locators. Signs

and signifiers jammed like radio

signals blocked with erroneous interference.

I may negate meaning by removing

all memory of signifiers. Each occasional

sign that appears in thought dissolves

with no anchor to relay it to.

Tonight, my dear, we drift. I dismantle
signifiers with nothing and leave emptiness
full.

3. Sex and Windows

I couldn't see you.

It was night, and besides, some trees
were in the way. But I looked
through my window anyway.

Each night, the same compulsion to
peak through windows into the abysmal
night prevails. I dream of bodies
collapsing in arrhythmic motion
against each other horrific
in ecstasy. Just like stars twinkling
behind fog (this poem is too dignified
for smog) as the earth spins gently toward
daylight. The imagination spares
nothing, and creates visions like hair
profusely hanging from well-kempt heads
(the perverse religious indulgence
milked from unholy places of the mind).

It is too much to bare. There is nothing
I don't want to touch. To grasp. To fuck
away into darkness. There is nothing I
seem to miss. The trees and stars are
taunting me to try the daunting task
to fuck them away forever. The night
fucks my eyes and the solar flares
flash around the edges of the earth
to engulf me in flames split away
in tiny frames. And every atom
fucks itself into nuclear post-coital
emptiness, humming in all frequencies
at once. Nullifying sounds that could
rise up and grip this body and move it
towards action.

The nights fucks itself away in glimpses
as I peak past window shades. I stay
inside and do nothing. And I simply cannot
see you anywhere.

To Wean

the fat woman at the grocery store
yelled at her child to kiss her owwie
because she kisses his

in front of me

it was a threat
she would take away his yogurt
if he didn't gently address the wound
on her lumpy leg
I gazed at through her shopping cart

I stared in disdain
then looked around me

shoppers just shopped
checkers just checked
and the line people just

shuffled along

take my advice, child

as soon you are able - leave
and in the meantime
going without yogurt doesn't seem so bad

going without is so novel
even I may begin to try it
I think that I may be ready
to be weaned

of yogurt