re: reminder: recursion

asymmetrically the boy fell
first one-third of him
and then his face
and then the rest
he left only an eyelash behind
suspended in the strangeness that
was its faceless life

the more the boy wandered the more
he grew.

seven stars glittered that night
only seven, strangely.
but he was used to that
he was used to seven stars
and silent singing,
somnambulism and personification
his bookshelves kept on laughing
at him.
he didn't know why.

so when he fell to pieces
he wasn't surprised.
only uneven.

some days were better than others
before the fall.
he had winters, springs, summers
and sometimes leaves change color
at the end of summer
so his life was pretty much normal.
except not.

in retrospect,
looking back beyond deep dark holes
and downward momentum
newer, normal worlds -
glancing circumspect
to catch it before it ran away -
life before the fall
was not normal
it wasn't normal at all.

but he kept on growing.
he couldn't help it.

looking up, with two broken legs,
the boy felt very small.

his legs healed
and he got up
and he walked
on, and on,
and on and on
and on and on
until someone
got tired of
making him
walk.

it wasn't that he couldn't stop growing.
he couldn't stop walking.
and he knew there was an answer
a reason. he knew.
it was like a puzzle, only
he loved puzzles. and he didn't like this.

three years later, after he had
grown for three years,
he jumped -
first his lips,
then his torso,
then his everything else.
it was kind of like a puzzle.

so he tried to reassemble himself.
sometimes it worked,

and sometimes he only thought it worked.

chapman and the three-pronged approach

how can you believe in so much rage
that burning veins and burning hands
do nothing for your sense of sorrow
that the glass houses we've built around ourselves
are no excuse
we searched for miles
but we couldn't find a vein
with which to put you down. talk
about survival instincts.

shelly or sheila

savagery is no excuse for vagaries
incessantly, incandescently i will pull
all of these words into a glass-like world
trees so fragile that fall causes a ripple
and then a whole lot of ripples, and then
one of those big-budget movie explosions

good thing it's almost winter.

what i mean to say is that i finally
understand what it is to want
certain things, velvet things
metaphorically, of course
because in my deep-glass world
they do not exist
and sometimes i want to cause a ripple.

the last few thousand

cold few hairs, it's november and i'm wearing shorts
i am known for my brevity
my bouts of wit. i am known for
turning puddles into ponds.

sea-side, beneath october sky
i never dreamed my eyes could raise so high
the one thing about working here is
the sunsets, and the smiles.
i guess that's two.
sit me down in a corner and make me
repeat the same two words.

sometimes all i need is a kick
sometimes all i need is a kick
sometimes

leaves fall farther than god will let
them, and i don't know how but they do it
and suddenly my shoulders decay
my arms decay
my heart decays
until all the king's horses and all of his men
put my body together again

troponin

so here we are, tangled

and wobbles on my lip all shout for
brand new, brand new teeth and
shiny white year. i want so much to fall
and i am, i am and it's hard to
figure out where i stand
this is a marsh

centuries of emotion diffuse to the top
epochs of disaster, plaster, grace
shattered and recycled until
god knows what brings me back to earth
thank you for inviting me
it's nice here

the seven seas gave me seventy days
to run through my grave
and pick up the flowers and scatter them
all over again, so i did and didn't realize
that on my wedding day i'd be
wearing plaid

i can still smell your morning hair
and i wouldn't have given that up for anything
is that stupid? yes, it's stupid.
and i start to shiver but i wring my hands instead
a steady twitching in my heart like
someone tried to make it start
take away the ether and put me in my shoes
i want to run to you.

below new york

we make things bigger
like pluto and dogwoods and
pulling apart file-cabinets, we
deconstruct our pasts
and fill them in with stories, horrors
houses with faces and mirrors with none
and my rear-view mirror revelation
seems so fitting, so right.
this time, i won't let it go

like the nato phonetic alphabet
and a certain failed attempt at playing
the devil's advocate.
misty, overcast, and beautiful all here in
some sort of glossy dream
but it's not, and your face is creased
and smiling, and i am thinking of the future

what i mean by this is
go home safely. and when you get there
please smile every day.

waiting rooms are always so

my walls seep stanzas
seem so ancestral some days
and brand-spanking-new others
back in the summer, warm sun,
abandoned abbeys and
abandoned rooms
never waiting never moving on

optimism keeps touching me
as if it knows me well
i won't object

this silly smile has a mind of its own
it is a waiting-room smile
warm sun in my solar plexus
let's paint it yellow so it will shine
let's poke it so it will laugh
one day i'll laugh

sinister somnambulism some days
some days not.
so i guess that's how it goes
unknown, winter leaves blown
blasted buds and those that grow
stick 'em all in a salad tosser and
see what blooms
sitting, grinning like a fool
waiting rooms are always so

so.
okay.

is this normal

every day like a phone call parade
we will walk, we will talk of
michelangelo and when the nothing,
like crows on a wire, calls out
i will think again
of sleeplessness

the pot, it boils and i
boil over. my cup
overfloweth

when the moon rose high the last time
i was ready for the pink smoke
that slips between the wires
every time i start to tire
and it brought me up again,
lifted me.

and only now is the seed of something strange
foreign material, foreign policy
trying to invade, to coil black and red
against the ethereal ever that lies in eyes
and, frankly, i am strange
i cannot not let go
my nervous shudders are back
my clothes are all on backwards
and insurance is nothing when it comes to
smoke and mirrors, curtain calls, fishing rods
and current issues.

my cup overfloweth, and the pot,
it boils. and i
boil with it.

so let us go, you and i
let us go. we must, you know. we must
let us go. relax. breathe. we must just be
only i can't stop thinking of the crook of your neck
you crook, beautiful crook.
let us go into whatever happens and let go
when the sky is awake and alive
like a patient jumping from the ether.

the ability to buy porn

weirdly inverted windows
the light sucked out and the breeze
falling in, summer morning winter night
keep me falling, i am beholden to some
raindrop on the sill of the passing train
beckoning, beckoning just beyond
the stolen words and silent
smiles and breathless recitations of almost,
just beyond all that i am truly
at peace

so we run

yes we do
on cellophane walls and
sticky phone calls, navigating
seas of emotion all for one
and one for every moment i live
tell me every song lyric isn't truthful
tell me shooting stars don't grant wishes
and i won't care
for once, i won't
let sleigh bells ring, let us lose ourselves in
tomorrow, tomorrow, and tomorrow
god on a rock a year ago and a day
my wishes are nothing to reality

hypochondria and anticipation

deep in this red-gray autumn
looking out over newer shingles fading black
a lark sky, a wet road
inside every part of me i feel a
whisper.