Abraxas Out of Reach
Stay. Stay still a moment. The moment is finished. Like a Cubist portrait when the smile perplexes us. Abraxas is pouting out of reach. The Spanish sunset rolls over our trench. Blue as a Dada-apple. Four paper dolls. & a head of gasoline. Do you copy? I am scoffing at sense & the sense that sense makes. Toffy Tanguy is my personal guide down to a Wal-Mart in the doors of Seville. The pere of mod art, he takes & he thinks. His knees are all buckles. The smart one a blossom. Pauses in revelation. His view of the construct. As a whole. Is a viaduct. Or valve. Not the shy girl of a sparrow crawling into a Chevy. The back seat is a beach ball. She rolls it up hill. But favors one leg. What questions have we? The mass influence of what we call egg is surreal. Quenching as a Pop art Pop Tart. Glued to a forehead. This is never Spain again. This is Fargo, the West Indies, The Hague of our nightmares. We lick Doom from a crutch tip. From the crutch’s leaning place. We are making believe believe it is real. The something wooden has gone & broken all my bones. I sat & I whistled till the train answered back: I have no bananas. I have cantaloupes & figs. In times of disparity. We share but a shadow. Of drunken existence. We pull it on over us. Raising the dog’s hackles more than a flag. More than a few wild red anemones. Known as a particular distance. Down. When she approached looking sad. She smiled sadly at us and asked: “Are you the guys from the Sea of Tranquility?”
Vacuum Tube Aesthetics per 100 ml
Please snap on yr nit elite Paul Revere. Either that or Juan Gris gets banged up and riddled with bullet holes. I have bordello lady on my cell phone…what do you require to finish yr scene? & reap me a reaper! I want to make war on the people in cyberspace but Antwerp is next & everyone is frozen. Make me a bawdy sundae and I will forget all about the will of the people & The Mannerist School. If I tell you my sorrowful, sad story will you leave me in peace? Very well then…The smoke I was smoking had a peach pit I disdained as unrealistic. We entered thru a vacuum and got bounced from the avant-garde. LAX xploded with vendors and hot dogs were ammunition. So I repeated my answer: No, I don’t like Ma Bell. It’s nothing personal. & No, I won’t say she’s crazy. She’s just another silly conglomerate. No on cares about free enterprise where she’s concerned. Not since the fall of the Berlin Wall. We just want to hear another voice making us happy. Yr cygnets, Sir Isaac Newton, gave me a headache I’ll never forget. I am growing apart. I am growing a data base I am helpless to control. It is bigger than yr data base. It must be Iceland. I am inclined to speak alter ego instead of a digital language or the language of diplomacy. I have Mickey Mouse watch hands to inspect before I am briefed about my mission to Jupiter. Not Mickey Mouse himself, mind you, but one of his gags caught fire in Reykjavik and renamed him Paul Éluard. The fire swept over us like the opposite of snow. We bandaged the capital. We longed for a nebisher to arrive and make major lover’s kugel. I ordered the happy police to obliterate a Wal-Mart. & stood firm on my principles. Our Reykjavik tradition schemed we could fly. I panned gold out of fear. I ate Spanish olives and got the son I had wanted. Edvard Munch stood naked holding a wooden nymph in his plastic arms. People milled about in the street below his window. It was winter and a vagrant chill occupied his frame of reference. Edvard Munch smiled and my daughter coughed blood. This is all about you, 20th Century! The inferno I back-ordered came COD. We had this understanding…I no spew ash and sulfur over his Audi, and he no fly Business Class when Coach is cheaper and a longer way home. Once my weasel squeaked: tikki, tikki, tikki & then I saw Eve plastered over in a fresco by Giotto. Name dropping is dangerous when the names you drop are all but dead now. Don’t squeeze the vermillion or dandify the ocher. Zinc tubes are a flush of modern theories about color and light. I want to know if you ever experienced Rachmaninoff jet lag. It’s a real ball buster taking the red eye from Chicago and landing in Brisbane looking stupid and a little off center. I’m a ball buster on reform issues. Scratch that martini. I’ll have OJ instead. Coaxial cable yr own brain and wait for the sub human characters to evolve into mice. That is one benign labyrinth. I am also a survivor in an existential sense. Who am I you ask? I just went around the car to answer your question and felt I had travelled a trillion light years. But how could that be? I just want to make dough and by that I mean money. Everyone I know or have known has had or does have a midpoint of no return. & still you keep asking: a solid is still a solid, right?
My Model Is Time
I have spent all the drachmas. You sent me a model. My model was Time. An all purpose fury I titled like a poem. About neck aches in Oise. But my model is time arranged on a cow hide. I still love the Pyrenees. When the clouds throw fits of Salvador Dali. Under the fire we cook. It is now the 2nd Century ab ovo & the wrenches are golden as the dreams on yr pillow. I am speaking about since. Not merely the masculine. I have moths that kill time. Some fantastic moths imbue this landscape of focus. With pockets of salt. Harbors locked in the eye without mercy. Or perhaps I have moths for a 4-chambered heart. A robust mania defuses my inch worth of choral music. I stood up on its head. Eating the salad made cracking the wise both a possible & an impossible bio. Burning last winter. Out of its bones. If I go further than floppy…Like a floppy disc of old…To the shore line bent over…Like a 3 ½ in floppy all over the elegance…Do I remain irrational forever? Fear, I fear, is a swerve on a highway. Out of the path of least resistance. Description has filed papers. To bankrupt the poets & artists & musicians. The square root of dreaming has taken. A dream. And shot out the ears. I am conceding my trepidation. Will you have honey this time? I figured I’d fat little phantoms. Blights of my brain life. And I walked till the garden looped. Bowl that it was. & over my shoulder came June. Like Orion. I danced the dance of the remarkable ham sandwiches. In the last flicker of dusk. I witnessed a rock slide. The abattoir has a name now. We have taken to calling it Cello. The man of a thousand shadows. Omits his own essence. A fearful eye across the eye of fear. Through the hallways I drone. Back and saddled in. Everyone kind of has to. Demonstrably love the book. In order to smell like a poet.
lives in Ocala, FL. His work appears in Otoliths, Cricket On Line Review, BlazeVox2kX, Letterbox, Ditch, The Argotist On Line, Cannot Exist, EOAGH, Moria, Out of Nothing, Clutching at Straws, Kill Author, Text Base, Xstream, & Apocryphal Text. He had several poems included in the first Sidebrow Anthology
and guest edited issue 6 of Pinstripe Fedora. His chap book, Two Hats Appear When Applauded
, is available free at Dusie. All four of his poetry books may be previewed and purchased at the Blue & Yellow Dog Book Shop. Visit his blog http:mjonesrview.blogspot.com
for email info, updates on Blue & Yellow Dog, and more samples of his work. He is editor of Blue & Yellow Dog
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