Drop Scenes
If I knew what I meant when I said
there will be entertainmentBricks laying bricks laying bricks
with all the sex of a thesis
scribed in the blue on the back of your handWhy don’t you take this river from me
the confluence of fact from my fax hole
so I can spy somewhere else without flyingdown the aisles along the inside of a shell
—movie theater with no sound
but a blood-rush through hollowed-out earsThough by ten feet from the peak of violence
the hum becomes dialog
cough syrup, ergot and electric fencesdesigned to protect the supermarket
from sheddingits three tears: one for each matchstick
dampened along fire exits and air vents
while the players smoke in refrigeration.*
We curved around the center arcing
in a cream of theory fizzunfortunate as love the man
who walked the perimeter of the zoowaiting for a waitress from an undecided past. It added up
to not more than an ego boostper hour, nervous-wreck machine
as even lawless she with the misty
locks undid his personality multiplexlooped through hands of devilishly uppity primal
matter scooped
out of the dashboard radioat very little volume. These were tastes they made
of seizing on the simplicities—pleasures of the bedroom program
readout which they welcomed, as theypushed away the red and homely syntax
the fragrance was finished with unless*
I was drunk already when you called, your sweaty
faces dripping, crying when I grabbed them from a wind
barking voicelessly at the dogs next door.They listened too long, lying beside the edge
of a blotched legal pad. Planned to leverup a satellite, and join together, hoping
to get back home. But night shifted to a zoologicalzone, and the wind retreated up something’s
back end. As for me, I tried tying my heads and handsin knots, though I couldn’t figure out how to undo it.
Morning came around earlier than usual,surpassing any order I’d known. Without flying off
the handle at the several witnesses onthe windowsill I climbed my hair
toward their sacred shapes, and dove into the pool.*
Please explain: tired of the baldness leaning
between the gray and green we call a chasmPeople think they’re made of blinking eyes
but more than air comes between us. Shiftthe melody this way, the quake has gone
through the broom closet and is out on the driveI wish we were something simpler
but the windows have a history, a showingunequaled on this floor. Best to go
up to the seventeenth where mice are buildinga city of glass and ice—numerological
interpretations of the top-forty. All else is “story”*
But what do you mean by beauty
The king’s been dead an hour or more
Hunting down his proxy paramourNo we haven’t established any laws
or personal details. I squid you.
Touch-touch the oven’s offThe same with this conditioner I’m afraid
Not designed for such rugged commercial acting we were made of swirls
and other reductive miniseries-stuntsthe way the cloud gathered in the wheelbarrow and we
tipped over; in a punch and scratch circus
where all our friends the annuals ignitedthe flame wistful, hopeful
the way the “end of things” found
their entelechy for an hour. Done withtheir cloaks covered with thorns, they made their way
movie-like coming in pink sheets
swollen angles a little blood in their “doing-there.”