nx-wd8
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Wicked are
the wind the insipid
air ways that
entrench in minds
Of other un-crossed
siblings of signed un-sighs; one for
all for
none-other
than the taxicab cabaret— sans
language – which can be,
mostly, prior
to science as if
the bobwire daisy-
chain, the tulipped green—or
are they poppies?—On the other
side of love or Eden living
in visage distanced
from skies; eyelids
closed, declared not
condemned to rest in presence
of beating sun.
There’s something about wanting to keep a moment pocketed in-mind against which time is kind to only amnesiacs.
“The hog”
The unfevered dream came in fits and bursts. “What is it you’re drawing?”—
He ignored her and her question. He was illustrating the monster, he was. “I’m drawing the monster—love it and, or, leave it I npeace.”
He couldn’t remember dream’s end; looking at himself in the mirror, a mirror described, when purchased at point-of-sale, as “Mirror with two arabesques in-tile” and he liked that, he liked it more; than even the definitive genuine article itself.
He was out later—whereat foggy trees hid and buildings stood behind the sun-or-other-star; light waiting if only for patience. He was waiting too for his guy, his proper man.
Darius—as in Darius-who-is-called-Yo-Darius—as in you-got-something-for-me-Darius?
Darius. He had quit a while back a while, so “while” he couldn’t remember when or how or why in a while.
Me, I quit everyday, said Darius always. That was him, it was so “he.” All we want is to wait without time—waiting is only waiting without uneven ends. More precise than desire was the luxury afforded thereof.
Darius shows or sometimes he didn’t; sometimes he wouldn’t—
The twin getters, those
sallow vacant
souls of low-iron and prejudice,
under sentimental vibes
of China, unlike
unkinder egos—or so
they believe—the whole stalking sunshine
like Orion-in-sky
When and wherever I
let silence sing
the bridge
to bloom unsubtle dream-school-time
it rains in mind, over memory matter of
new seasons in-deep.
Sun-in-sky bends over the right greater
mad(ness) on Eris’s life-and-land,
in sighs of seaside ribbonesque, the tide,
wings of watered flames, framing a room
not one alone away, to
haze over dog in seaspray
where words are no longer
(than) walls