Thursday, April 21, 2011
I Only Meant Your Loop Was Running Out
Billy knew his Blastopods.
that always impressed me, more
or less, and his thing for the Lepus,
you had to hand him a grudging
respect. areas of limited interest
driving a kind of archeological fervor.
he comes around since dying.
once we were doing something
with ketchup, another time
there were balloons and a vast expanse
of open prairie. he wanted to kill
at least two of my favorite lovers
but called them oddballs instead.
then the time the entire city, Detroit
maybe? was merging with him
like neither was the tumor
of the other. towering spires, sprawling
masses in concrete, steel, glass exo-
structure melded seemingly painlessly
with his shaven head, nearly obscuring
the horseshoe scar.
hard on the parked cars but aesthetically
a rousing triumph of form over fucking
anything. why him? why did he get to grow
whole metroplexes while I direct traffic
on a carless post-apocalypse holiday weekend?
a parking garage in his skull.
everything to scale.
where is my new cranial urban utopia?
aren’t I the situationist here? didn’t he
revel in those cracks like “Today I am a tree!”?
that pose a la Krazy, languid, delirious.
I wrote a poem the year he first walked
into a doorless building. I hadn’t seen him
but he was there (with the ponce retroactively
removed) as follows:
draws me into a cartoon pencil, pipe
cleaner limbs, punishing of joke.
That I laugh withal ejects
me out a panel edge into what,
Peanuts? he liked them, I think?
he’s as night unaware it’s narrating
itself in decorative potted Aztecs.
the moon as carafe, smoke
as a tree. I’m joking, seriously.
No malice in his nature, no sex but what
in suns can never be forced set.
And he’s lone, sketched form, moron
ballets for one, whisper-felt as that buzz
on the hairs in your inner hearing.
it’s a permanently pregnant
chimney, curls in stork flight.
if I can drug myself deep enough
I’ll see standing chromium coaches
brim as the grain of space beneath
a flaming picnic plate on fish wire.
clang once if you know this
is all a fabulous artifaction. gutless
vesper in the next town annexed
by your exoteric drown.
when we pissed off the drunken boy
wonder you knew it would never
get better than that, but might
I’ll develop a plan 10, 11, and on…
keep doing so but they all bust.
brain as undulant gotham?
you squirreled the original plans
in your matter now fusing weirdly
with that rotten tentacled pome.
have better to recall, memory,
than yours truly in lung terror,
here ipso your wise ass as predicted,
laid out single endangered head
on a dream compacting hybrid. concrete
that looks like marble in Canada.
who’s to become now insignifica,
posed as a woondid gezelle?