Poems from the Salon

The come-what-will
of wind and rain
cold springlike evening
inside and hungry still
await to cross, not with new eyes,
but to cross, there, again
as wind and rain
await a space to fill
across now, a sullen smile
in light the lips began
cold spring, turned down but vain
not a bridge on this hill
nor a friend, my friends
to steady my gaze, this my mile again.

—————

A world apart
this we must leave
behave, not a chance
to breathe in this world
in whole or part
the space of language
taken by soiled hands
and bowed heads left to chance
the space of language
behaved to breathe apart from this world
the cantor, apart, to breathe
in silence, to dance
in part on soil
as to leave this space
in language against the world.

—————

As a teacher I wanted to facilitate the child learning language even though I understand that you don’t have enough emotional conviction to say what you feel in lieu of the rationality of thought leading you already drawn out yet to draw out of messages albeit due reminder of it reminds me of something I read the other day in that I think it might be more so “it” than you think it is considering how and when the thought doesn’t necessarily have to be overly personal which of where just an opinion is the new form of the remnant form mentioning that more basically positioned over what then was in inauguration of the still within that only after the public sphere lies outside of political power of what cannot estrange from estrangement which not only meant for Kierkegaard that one could hold an opinion on anything without having to act on it and under it this which opens up abridgment through posthumously recursive shuffling the possibility of endless reflection after inflecting possible decision to boot potentiality towards action of incurability as one can look at all things from all sides and always find some new perspective from which to put everything into question again of Kierkegaard when he saw gaping-mouth based modality which could merit the dust in sharp panic when everything up is for endless critical commentary and action finally becomes impossible of oh so good and then bye to return into what I’m having to completely salvage as cerebral-nomadic procuration of gravol-esque sights upon the smoldering horizon of hallucinatory challenge of presence with which we speak with as bold conjugation has been happening for nearly an hour now after quick rightward twist of the neck inside the jar of what withheld the left upper sneer of lip and bizarre coincidence of translucent quotidian was the wrong word taking 3D form into fluid movements of why I’ve switched or haven’t seen many different objects already when I can manifest them if I stare at certain areas for a long enough time when it seems to help if the lighting/shadows are in the right position to coax the close call with the doze-dream into form if I always keep them small after seeing in as certainty would task its force to wonder if fucking swirling beams of pretzel-like energy both in direction of head down way of why and wondering if I don’t want some humanoid thing lumbering around the house before I look away but shit to swear is shit to mention not when or that but where that I had a fucking awesome 2D one as well in of who sought for he would not ever be fooled by those of pedantic procurement immediate in network refueling for clandestine concentration of commiserative rebound ingestion marked by axiomatic placebo hidden overtly in eschewed character mishap says a fluid and cartoonish mass of vex which then suddenly faced and traced and now constricted into project formed of stiffness shattering itself on the TV screen in the outline of the dust because the TV is off in 2D and it kept moving it’s mouth and it’s entire head was all wavy and it looked in pain to the wide eyed reappearance sighed rubber and the 180 degree rotation of the upper eyelid after the gaping mouth to which no bombast of mind-eye mass in favor of the gasmask:children ratio could lead to squinting in between as if sad to never face-punch it though continually in conceptual itch and that which of tautologous undertone quickly went never from ask me to pardon my partisan but if only where am I morphing after stylizing the round inclination of nothing around and ever slow and slightly breathing quickly now and almost panting of mouth forever stuck in the open pattern of the dust.

—————

Washing hands alone is a disservice to romance
with what a dozen hands aching to be so entwined
with other coughing patrons
with warmth and water and hot air
tongues and cuticles in slow strange combination
finger fucking anti-bacterial soap
with coughing patrons
in the shadow of sinks
drying and tossing and settling in
to cum and cleanliness.

—————

The left wing of capital
(oh isn’t this a bore?)
no friend, it’s quite real I swear
they’ll shoot us down like partridges
or give us jobs in the academy
(a job? oh my, I couldn’t ask for more!)
they’ll manage revolt
channel the crowd towards production
and so on
enemies of the revolution, you see
(I read the same books as leftists
so you must be talking about you and me!)
no, friend, no
we are ok, we prefix our revolutionary with pro
and write strangely
it is altogether different
this you should know!
(hurumph! what petty difference
I and you, we are the left
with this I’ll end our fight:
come to my party
and bring a spoon
we eat partridge soup tonight!)