Music for Homemade Instruments
I dug you artless, I dug you
out. Did you re-do? You dug me less, art. You
dug, let’s do art. You
dug me, less art. Did you re-do? If I left art out, you
dug. My
artless dug-out. You dug, let art out. Did you re-do, dug-out
canoe?
Easy as a porkpie piper-led cinch. Easy as a baby bounce. Hop on
pot,tin pan man. Original abstract, did you re-do it? Betting on shy
cargo,
strutting dimpled low-cal strumpets employ a hipster to blow up
the native
formica. Then divided efficiency on hairnets, flukes, faux
saxons. You dug,
did you re-do? Ever curtained to experiment with
strumpet strutting. Now
curtains to milk laboratory. Desecrated flukes
& panics displayed by mute
politicians all over this whirly-gig. A
well known mocker of lurching unused
brains, tribal & lustrous
diddlysquats, Latin dimension crepe paper &
muscular stacks.
Curtains for perky strumpets strutting with mites in the
twilight of
their origami funkier papoose. Thanks for patting wood at
flatland.
Thanks for bamboozle flukes at Bama, my seedy medication.
Thanks for
my name in the yoohoo. Continental camp-out, percolating
throughout
this whirly-gig on faux saxon flukes. Artless, you dug. Did you
re-do?
Sleeping with the Dictionary
I beg to dicker with my
silver-tongued companion, whose lips are ready to
read my shining
gloss. A versatile partner, conversant and well-versed in
the verbal
art, the dictionary is not averse to the solitary habits of the
curiously wide-awake reader. In the dark night’s insomnia, the book
is a
stimulating sedative, awakening my tired imagination to the
hypnagogic
trance of language. Retiring to the canopy of the bedroom,
turning on the
bedside light, taking to bed this heavy book laden with
the weight of all the
meanings between these covers, smoothing the
thin sheets thick with
accented syllables––all are exercises in
the conscious regimen of dreamers,
who toss words on their tongues
while turning illuminated pages. To
go through all these motions and
procedures in pursuit of an alluring word
is the poet’s nocturnal
mission. Aroused by myriad possiblities, we try out
the most perverse
positions in the practice of our nightly act, the penetration
of the
denotative body of the work. Any exit from the logic of language
might
be an entry in a symptomatic dictionary. The alphabetical order
of
this ample book of knowledge might render a dense lexicon of lucid
hallucinations. Beside the bed, a pad lies open to record the
meanderings
of migratory words. In the rapid eye movements of the poet’s
night vision,
this dictum can be decoded, like the secret acrostic of
a lover’s name.
