Wednesday, November 30, 2016

Notional Notation

Pure psychic automatism

Renewing my poetic license
in the year of Our Lord 2016

Into the Maelstrom

Mare tenebarum
desolate panorama
ramparts of the world
howling and shrieking
black-looking island
wilderness of surge
cluster of black rocks
world of crags

At this age
everyone has ceased having
the least bit of sympathy for you

Only Jesus and Dracula
know what it's like
to wake up everyday

And in both cases
someone else is telling
the story

Dialing past talk radio 
snippet intercept,
mean Southern woman's voice:

"How do you put a value on a mullah?"

(Kept dialing because
I didn't want what she was talking about
to spoil the humorous effect)

do you have children?

no I'm an old roguish enigma
a prime number
a formula abolished
like an apocryphal saint

Footsteps become people
under streetlamps

loneliness hidden behind
every tree

leafless fibrillations

frangible inquiries
into the Mystery

the clock falls back
after Hallowe'en

Drudge my whole life
to call myself middle-class?
think I'll take a pass

in a secret realm
 behind my mind
I saw the truth
of space and time

I called myself a saint
and sank deeper into sin

if life becomes pain
 should one remain?

I try to avoid
letting reality
drag me down
to its level

The cops can see in my window
and I'm not even paranoid
at all hours blinds up balls out

an old Apache
smoking hashish
by the lamp

I'm saving up for velvet cuffs
to fasten over my shackles

One day it came about
 Sister Woman never came back
from the sorghum mill
We never saw her again
never knew what happened
All that Winter we lived
on sorghum alone
Nourished by the memory
of our six foot sister

of the WILL

(Notes in English after A.R.:
2 en face pages of a dictionary
opened at random)

TV was ghosting
as a gift token
gerrymandering was ghoulish
gestapo gerontology, graveyards
the ghastly gigalo
overrun by gibbons
ghetto geegaws and gibbets
gigahertz of gibberish
germ warfare
gestures cast in gesso
ghostlier giants a-giggle
a gilded gibe
giddy bankers getaway


Indians in my family tree
Sun going down at eleven AM

suddenly KALX comes in
with the rainy season
I may have lost my ears for it

Way out on the landing
a coot red leaf floating
a commorant comes
 and goes below

No ferry today
very few people
brisk business at
the liquor supermarket

Vast slow motion flag
train passes by in reverse

Cranes are up decorating
the incredible tree
Cut down to stand there
for a month
to cry out
for commerce and cheer

Last year demonstrators
attacked the tree
reveling in seasonal
malice and spite

At rooftop sunset
seagulls row across the sky
into magenta

Salt Water Taffy

Madam Sozaska
opens her tent
she'll spill some sawdust
for a sawbuck

Tawdry business
in sunlight and shadows
used to come here
in years gone by

When you drop the coins
the tank fills
with salt water
as the couples dance on

I find myself inside
the old puppet theater
unfamiliar faces
emanate social angst

The psycho pathology
of every-day side-show
a game of chance
in a miniature world

Made nightmarish
by time and death

I accept the frailty
and woe of old age
as the price I must pay
for the carefree
gaiety of my youth

A ferocious animal
reared up
and bit me on the ass
my bad temper

To what yellowing precepts
to you subscribe?
I've dumped them all
good-bye, good-bye

Lord Foster Wallace
of Amherst
Now that's one
supposedly fun
thing you'll never
do again

November Dreams

In a nightclub with unknown others
Watching a black and white film
from long ago a group playing
a jaunty jazz number
The bassist briefly featured
cut to a close-up
Young white man
smiling a familiar smile
playing a double-bass
The coin drops and it dawns
that it is JFK in his prime
guesting with a Count Basie-style band

A demonic mythical half-man
pushes me onto a chair
rips open my clothes
frontal exposure
unpleasant erotic
I look closely at its head
adorned with horns
twisting live serpents
carved hair writhing
primitive decorative elements
as if made of play-dough
in Boschean multicolor
his intentions his mind

A poor young black man
on a local bus with me
Some unpleasantness
in inaudible words he exchanges
with the bus driver
who is also black and
wearing his dreads in a rasta hat
the exchange continues
from the sidewalk
where the first man is now joined
by a poor young black woman
the driver shows him
he has a handgun

Great Whites slip off
to a desert café
on the bottom of
the deepest sea bottom
Honeymoon bungalows
shaped like castle ruins
the brides of Frankenstein
waggle off to secret nursery caves
shark cage basinets
the songbirds of the islands
go out one by one
butterfly steals nectar
from an ant mandible
at Frankie's fish locker
the bottom fell out
so many eels it was surreal
neon signage
spells something out
last act
new docks built
on crumbling old piers
first the tide rushes in

October-November 2016

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