oh, wooden vortex
if it could record information
it’d play like a phonograph
black mist condensed in the air
that flows into your hair
and molds in my hands
and falls away like backwards rain
and you feel something
but dont know what to say
so you go: ooo

oh i am lukewarm
on an infinite plane and
it still feels the same
i am pregnant with half baked ideas
for a flash i cease to exist in relation to only myself
and then my nose comes into view
this dewdrop world’s a morning nuisance for your shoes
ooo

(The Glowing Silver Orb)

the glowing silver orb,
appearing blue,
does not appear.
the fire sizzles like bacon on
lesbian satanists in an old
french movie.

the walls pounds away
at
the air
with our breath,
and with the smoke from cigarettes
which occasionally takes the place of breath,
we push back.
no. into the land of all seriousness
we argue and create things that
are new as each moment flows through them,
unstable explosions-
trying to fool our senses or something...

so stamens slivered from the blonde, bellowing
stomach of the table, gutted and guttural,
but huge and veined,
made of fluid wood that gives way to the touch like flesh.
swirling and growing...

and like a flash of thunder in the peripherals,
the pollen dug into to the talons of bird,
who attempted to perch
who was both golden and blue,
like splinters.

and in a blur of movement drilled into the walls,
hanging her there by her feet.

I lay my hands upon
the back of the... Ah!
cool to the touch...
-the bird, the birds back,
the bird is metal,
but then feathers,
feathers in the metal,
within, without.
like the blue and gold,
not spotted or separated,
but... simultaneous.

I feel these are words that would be truer in Braille.

So here are my hands
amongst all this wood
and metal,
and yellow light,
and lack of night stars.

Here are my hands again, far
from the clouds
that won’t show their true
purple, whose electric souls
do battle with laziness,
who tell me, “I don’t have
a soul, I am just a sum-of-parts.”

Here, are my hands
wondering if all this wood
and metal isn’t flesh?
or just as good?
It
beats like the pumping
or arteries.

So here are my hands
wondering what I can
reach into and what
I can pull out.
fumbling for things to turn into profit,
demonstrating in the air,
talking with cool ease,
now pocketed.

Here are my hands,
amongst all this wood
and metal and I don’t
know what to do with
them.
I would give them to you,
if you could truly receive them.
They are made of are made of wood and metal, I realize,

that gives way to the touch like flesh.

they, too, are a shimmering simultaneity of every color,
they are sonorous whales,
they are a multiplicity of dancing electric charges,
a million subtly flickering layers,
they are like everything else.
and like everything else, they are infinitely specific.
they are not the same as they were a moment ago
these are my new hands,
sifting through primordial goo,
hoping to touch something absolute,
and in the meanwhile searching for your hands-
or the cardinal directions of your stomach.
resting on your cheeck, yet
filled with all that dancing electricity!

here are my new hands,
the same as your hands,
as wood and metal,
as fire,
as plaster and air,
as a tomato,
as a seven pound hempen shirt,
as vast and endless space.