from: The Science of Forgetting
(cover art by Thaddeus Conti)
Ars Memoriae
to experience a thrill zone or a patina
approaching rembrandt
the mnemonist
takes a truncheon for a hat
The Science of Forgetting
to take part in tumult in a place
or shining, getting close
to Tiepolo, the mind of the one
who forgets all
out of his pants fall genitals
Preface to a Near Full Moon
in the ear of hypnotized sleep
the corked bottle is knocked over
a series of giant tarantulas
pass one after the other
the transparent apple dreams
of lace & down feathers
“Here’s to us!”
neither Paris nor Homer
can say it better
the oak the almond the juniper
hold the allure to this waking weather
folding back the bedsheets
souvent je n'ai rêvé
que de toi seule
Epilogue To A Far Empty Sun or
Eclipse of The Hunger Moon
Out of the eye of thoughtful waking
The open vacuum isn’t erected
A random set of tiny lizards
Surpass one another
Opaque kiwi realities
Of hems, not upscale jewels
“There I am!”
Both London and Callimachus
Can’t erase anything worse
This lack of acorns, empty worlds, gin
Drops the cracking of this sleeping absence
Unfolding forth the rickety chair’s drop cloth
My aunt reveals her self
An off key person cackling like you
The Divas of Akroitiri
there's a risk of good will
which is vulgar
and which does not allow
my tastes to interfere
with the accident of beauty
forthwith the rise
of bread baked during winter
a range of savory
peanut snacks a sheep's sorrel
even in some cases
a bird bath or a sousaphone
in one's own home
The Divas of Akron, Ohio
bad indecisiveness isn’t dangerous
but it’s quite elite
& lets you
be a butninsky
about the definiteness of ugliness
whatever the downfall
of a casserole of bullfrog
a firing range of sweets
rice cakes - the lamb’s a wolf
no, that’s never true
a therein to bathe by
a pigeon pie in every oven
Locus Pocus
look at painting
as you would in a mirror
growing backwards
giving an eye for an ear
repudiated goddess
omniscient massage librarian
anyone can become autonomic
and ne’re a thought more
daresay every intention
by which splendor arrives
petitioning the sun
west of the Himalayas
for whom yellow is blue
The Magic of the Monkey Bars
don’t look at a black hole
as I wouldn’t a stuffed room
shrinking toward you
withholding nonsense for gibberish
loved she-devil
ignorant crumpled book-hater
no one can not be enslaved
always goofing like a dickhead
I won’t say a single extension
without which squalor never comes
& the moon never knows
east of the feminist stand-ups
for whom purple is orange
Circe’s Lament
all the words are taken
I've made sure of that
burying them under stumped trees
whatever else you can't find can
be found inside a glass
jar of pickled meat
plotted by a universe
whose hands call forth
verso after verso the milky lights
o ereshkigal of irkalla, eldest sister
of ishtar, queen mama of
nungal's half-siblings,
namtar and ninazu,
what music do you desire?
are humans a species worth living?
please whisper in fatalistic french
so I’ll know which animal
will befit their fate
Eric’s Joy
none of the unsaid is given
you’ve not known its
unearthing above gnarly roots
nothing you lose can’t
be lost again outside a whiper-ish
strewn tidbit of rotting vegetable
untapped map of a black hole
those silent feet go backwards
recto a.d. recto the slimy darkness
as if that guy koresh were from iraq, youngest
brother of the rat king, dad of
lagnun’s 2nd cousins once removed
moon rat and another nin
what chance atonality don’t I hate?
aren’t zombies to be annihilated?
do shout out in random syllables
so the not-I won’t know all the rocks
are wrong for any beginning
Ode to Neap Tide
suffered from shipwreck fever
&/or the plurality of worlds
everything is to anyone
an agent to dispose of
aboard the man o’ war
neither rejoicing isles
of palm & myrrh
nor carried by sail & oar
but as profile in a flat vortex
when the sun and moon
are at right angles fleshy
edible white and yellow
their carved faces make
lanterns for the damned
who return to Bagdad
I Hate the Tides
took pleasure from docking pitch
& the singleness of utopia
nothing ain’t to no one
an unconcerned citizen
who’s joined Grannies-for-Peace
to separate both peninsulas
unbalanced by nonviolent protest
but as hazy view in a squiggly maelstrom
when the darkness & night sweats
aren’t anywhere near each other
their mushy about-faces tear apart
more darkness for the blessed
sent forth to make an easter island peace