Let's Make the Water Turn Black
Let's Make
Pyres of brush
as anagram
of spontaneous com-
bustion, cloud
filling with wind
vectors, blasts
of char in my a-
orta, aerial fuels,
how feelings
are an anchor
point on the
aspect, a single
tree, dead.
You were
the wild mech-
anism of the
vortex column
ascending through
a crown of
pines and blinding
the absolute
forbs. Oh mol-
ecules of blue
echolocation
ground down
to stumps, for-
give me, I built
our love on
the fire line
between stra-
ta, the grasses
smoldering, ta-
ta, my radiant
burn, you’re the a-
pex, a charisma, se-
ed, Seer, Edenic
source text, ex-
it, woo
wound round
woe the two-way
radio waves
a fre-
quency never
quenched.
It is not me
searing on
the scaffold,
it is not me in-
side the excruciating
landscape’s crux
and hex. I cannot
hold you dear
anymore, dear
tangential rope,
but what bright
christenings you
bring into swirling
conflagrations,
red flags flapping
in the red fire
where the terrible
climactic descent
is dissected by
an atmospheric
death, an apotheosis
of form retracing
one more minute
one more minute
the guru says
but where am I
torching as vol-
uptuous underburn,
tender water erasing
the rocks, tender
tender water
erasing the granite.
Pyres of brush
as anagram
of spontaneous com-
bustion, cloud
filling with wind
vectors, blasts
of char in my a-
orta, aerial fuels,
how feelings
are an anchor
point on the
aspect, a single
tree, dead.
You were
the wild mech-
anism of the
vortex column
ascending through
a crown of
pines and blinding
the absolute
forbs. Oh mol-
ecules of blue
echolocation
ground down
to stumps, for-
give me, I built
our love on
the fire line
between stra-
ta, the grasses
smoldering, ta-
ta, my radiant
burn, you’re the a-
pex, a charisma, se-
ed, Seer, Edenic
source text, ex-
it, woo
wound round
woe the two-way
radio waves
a fre-
quency never
quenched.
It is not me
searing on
the scaffold,
it is not me in-
side the excruciating
landscape’s crux
and hex. I cannot
hold you dear
anymore, dear
tangential rope,
but what bright
christenings you
bring into swirling
conflagrations,
red flags flapping
in the red fire
where the terrible
climactic descent
is dissected by
an atmospheric
death, an apotheosis
of form retracing
one more minute
one more minute
the guru says
but where am I
torching as vol-
uptuous underburn,
tender water erasing
the rocks, tender
tender water
erasing the granite.
the Water
A phantom
tracking the trip-
tych as pivot as
hydra flows
into hydro, it is my
personal theory of dis-
persion, sensory
overload used for
CIA experiments,
said one tremendous
wave to the next tre-
mendous wave that
came from thousands
of miles away, and
the first raised its voice,
as the second lowered
its voice and so on
and so forth and the waves
had a long conversation
with each other, talked
of what they had lost,
“Have you left anything
in the world you
didn’t wash away
by flood?” asked
the first wave.
“I have been burned
by the vapor
of many stars,” replied
the second. “It is
a sort of sensory
deprivation they
suffer from,” said
the first wave
and then the two waves
softly decayed
on the stretched
beach and they
could tell from the smell
of the sand
in the desert
that it is was spring
the way sound
fluctuates almost
indefinitely
and they felt
the two sides of
water wrap
around the birds
and they could hear
the oranges
ripening on the trees
more inland
and the gentle
frenzy of bees
and the little
girl walking
toward a mirage,
passing the mirage
into real water
and they could
reach very far
into her little
iris and could
see the entire
ocean in the
background
which was the birthplace
of waves, the little
girl and the story,
a generative
repetition as
the little girl
picked the fruit
and ate it quietly
by herself.
A phantom
tracking the trip-
tych as pivot as
hydra flows
into hydro, it is my
personal theory of dis-
persion, sensory
overload used for
CIA experiments,
said one tremendous
wave to the next tre-
mendous wave that
came from thousands
of miles away, and
the first raised its voice,
as the second lowered
its voice and so on
and so forth and the waves
had a long conversation
with each other, talked
of what they had lost,
“Have you left anything
in the world you
didn’t wash away
by flood?” asked
the first wave.
“I have been burned
by the vapor
of many stars,” replied
the second. “It is
a sort of sensory
deprivation they
suffer from,” said
the first wave
and then the two waves
softly decayed
on the stretched
beach and they
could tell from the smell
of the sand
in the desert
that it is was spring
the way sound
fluctuates almost
indefinitely
and they felt
the two sides of
water wrap
around the birds
and they could hear
the oranges
ripening on the trees
more inland
and the gentle
frenzy of bees
and the little
girl walking
toward a mirage,
passing the mirage
into real water
and they could
reach very far
into her little
iris and could
see the entire
ocean in the
background
which was the birthplace
of waves, the little
girl and the story,
a generative
repetition as
the little girl
picked the fruit
and ate it quietly
by herself.
Turn Black
He told the story of
a hang glider who lost
his arm in 1998
not flying but
rather hopping
freights full
of cattle, trains tremb-
ling with agitated
meat that would
not accept the adverse
conditions of their
demise, would not
accept their direction
of travel and when
the man returned home
several months later
to his northern town
of aurora borealis,
huckleberries,
and hang gliders,
all his hang glider
friends had died due
to the defective
wings the company
manufactured,
so we can see
this irony as mythos
on the fringe
of wind, that they
died in the latent
tower’s downdraft,
in the deep cyclonic
ice, in the super-
cooled remnants where
there remains a dense,
vigorous orb, an
iridescence, a cadence
that wraps the flagrant
urge eclipsed
by bites, a spectrum
of trauma-in-
duced reckoning.
Where was
the man’s arm?
He knocked on a hex-
agonal pat-
tern, I mean
he knocked on the door
of what falters,
I mean he knocked
on the door of the poly-
phonic, on what
cannot resonate or est-
ablish itself
in one eloquence,
their mouths, ears,
eyes full of graupel
and graupel on
their tongues as a
charm, as language
spiraling through
waves, fire, centuries
toward earth, turning
round and around
as mechanism, as
phenomenon, how
lucky I am thinks
the man, I would like
an omelet and coffee
thinks the man who
is now content to fade
unlike the others’
manifold omen, a lull
so turbulent—
I fold in
I fold in.
He told the story of
a hang glider who lost
his arm in 1998
not flying but
rather hopping
freights full
of cattle, trains tremb-
ling with agitated
meat that would
not accept the adverse
conditions of their
demise, would not
accept their direction
of travel and when
the man returned home
several months later
to his northern town
of aurora borealis,
huckleberries,
and hang gliders,
all his hang glider
friends had died due
to the defective
wings the company
manufactured,
so we can see
this irony as mythos
on the fringe
of wind, that they
died in the latent
tower’s downdraft,
in the deep cyclonic
ice, in the super-
cooled remnants where
there remains a dense,
vigorous orb, an
iridescence, a cadence
that wraps the flagrant
urge eclipsed
by bites, a spectrum
of trauma-in-
duced reckoning.
Where was
the man’s arm?
He knocked on a hex-
agonal pat-
tern, I mean
he knocked on the door
of what falters,
I mean he knocked
on the door of the poly-
phonic, on what
cannot resonate or est-
ablish itself
in one eloquence,
their mouths, ears,
eyes full of graupel
and graupel on
their tongues as a
charm, as language
spiraling through
waves, fire, centuries
toward earth, turning
round and around
as mechanism, as
phenomenon, how
lucky I am thinks
the man, I would like
an omelet and coffee
thinks the man who
is now content to fade
unlike the others’
manifold omen, a lull
so turbulent—
I fold in
I fold in.