FIELD
it is not
my baby
this multiverse of
fluctuating quantum fields
I was fine with Lego
with all those
Pink Floyd
bricks in the wall
was fine
with looking at my arm
flesh and bone
before my mind dissolved it
and you and me
was what we were up
to mere ripples in the flow
producing
out of nowhere
ecstatic conjunction?
as I said
this is not
my field
not my baby I lack
the total mathematics
the Platonic wisdom
SOMETIMES
sometimes
I am
just
randomness
Cummings words
jumping all over the
quantum page
as if
twin slit experiment
(the smile of physics gone Gemini
getting our minds pretty
tangled up together
you tell me coyly
inform me
in no uncertain terms)
if it cannot be
real
this everything
if it is lax on locality
could it
be dream?
I asked this of the iconic cat
in the box before it
disappeared
and now I am blessed with
the answer but sworn to secrecy
science
now in uproar
doctoral candidates frayed
fissile
exploding in clouds of
white chalky dust
as if
made of talcum powder
all over Tesla’s headstone
thinking of
the half-life of what
lies
in that grave
Sent from my iPhone
INSIDE
poem is the fiction
of interiority
trying to persuade itself
it is
what lies inside
ad infinitum
again and
again
and again
sometimes with quite
spectacular transformative effect
(who in
their right mind
would doubt there
is an
inside
after that?)
GO FIGURE!
was in Heaven enjoying the brand name
slurping bubbling carbonated cola
through a golden straw
thinking of all
the people in my life
whose names I no longer remember
(don’t feel bad, or alone:
I no longer remember my own)
did they make the cut?
hey who the hell knows?
it’s all
immaterial
but life
lounging by the soda fountain
is not so cool — albeit eternal
when
stripped of all its chemicals
devoid of its additives
seems whoever is in
charge of censorship here
is letting me
express some alternative ideas
a bit of a blow to those
it must be
sacrificed themselves
for
Holy conformity, divine
regimentation
go
figure!
IMPOSSIBLE
I cry out
many times
cry out
but am
not heard
you might not think it
to read this poem
what point is there
crying out
in this poem
crying out
in any poem
poetry being a vehicle
of containment
a thing
of control
not a place to cry out
the pain
of each cry
rendering the poem
impossible
RAIN
the writer writes
the end of
the world
but the paper
is putting up
too much
resistance
somehow he just cannot
write his way to
his vision of
an ending
quietly cataclysmic
apocalypse falling
upon us soft as rain
EXCHANGE
paradox of choice
constant of change
let’s just surrender to
life, the flow, the poem
forget writers and
readers
who is where
who is what
where to find our story
the narrative that spreaks us
captures us totally
in its
open-
ended box
AS IT SO HAPPENS
as it so happens
the Church and State
are both
outraged
the Sun and Moon
have begun to
tango begun
to samba
and some devil drunk
on tequila
is in the vestry
demanding communion
damanding absolution
quoting from a mash-up
of Neruda’s sublime Cantos
and visionary
holy books
and all are aghast
having booked their places
these
sons and daughters
not a tatter between them
no missing thread
and thus
in assued completeness
remain well aware
that devil on tequila becomes
devil in tequila becomes
democratic
host of devils that
bring decorum down
become god of thd people
hacked to pieces and
resurrected
become
the bones
of the philosophers doomed
until the end
of argument
to host
perpetual return
BIT
you summoned me
for party-games,
for romantic
themes
or so it sounded,
so it seemed
given your dancing through
all protocols,
your show and tell
and mystery
graceful
as all Hell but too
leopard fast that
I might anything retain
and there we ending
playing Monopoly diplomatically
diplomacy
monogamously
unless
in Triple Entente or
Menage a Trois
and me
in inquisition mode
determined
to interrogate your very
sensuality probe you
high and low
for heresy
(whether best
or worst of its kind)
the Turing test
the litmus test the blind taste test
with control
and me busy scribbling my way
through raw data
conclusion (and recommendations) thick
with crescendo
and to think
my original presumption
(seduced into
aberration by
Descartes demon)
was that I did not could not really exist
and therefore
would never get laid
an alternate universe somehow
devoid of sexuality
I am at
the bottom of the Seine in
Rimbaud”s
drunken boat
awaiting Nemo
my last hope of rescue
need
to go full Nautilus
to get
out of this place return
to my gone childhood
where robots are spooky by
no means mind-
expanding and
voraciously sexual
she sitting with me in a pose
that
given the technology may
well last forever
time whirling, whorling
into gold blue circular
star patterns
insistent
on their forever
soused in an artistic courage
determined to have its
(wicked) way
we are not anything
nowhere
nothing
like,the rest
merci beacoup
for
the darling sex
(you so
so slickly
do
your bit)
PYGMALION
the gods pitied Pygmalion
his love for his statue
(so nubile under
his fingers),
her reflected love for him
decided to bring them.together,
enshrine in marble
make
their love immortal,
permanent
aching to embrace forever
inching closer each
millennium
a tale with enough true
sadness for
our age
though the fable
Iives
inspires in
different form
secure in
its impossible irony
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