I saw it in his eyes.
He didn't want to be here, too much
Pain on this here
Earth grid with its malevolent
Algorithms. I wasn't
Supposed to look
Of course, nor speak
In any way, either
Ack-knowledge-ing
Or inter-venous-ly,
Not even supposed to be there
Of course, some experiences
Are too private or at least
Too shameful to share
But I needed some timothy
And it was the only way in, through
The barn where the pain is made
In eyes kept dark, without even
Blinders on. But the sky is so blue,
The transparency today so complete
I want to retire to Portugal, so the breeze
At least will match the vibe, such silence
When every word is in a poem.
It's where they grow the cork,
It grows on trees, like money does here
Before it bursts like 10 million penises
Into every aortic expressway
Carrying some unseen germ, in each car,
A virus or a gift, take your pick.
It's probably a little of both.
Anything out of the ordinary unified whole
Is a flaw, but it is that very quality
That makes it so very highly prized,
Like the pock stamp of beauty, or the fly
On the Eindhoven still-life of fruit,
The unique. You can't read that shit aloud.
Every cell beyond the ear vibrates with its own ...
Insanity you could call it, an inability
To conform, the breeze that makes our freak flag fly
Always stirs some goosies, conjuring within that tiny
Heart of yours an egg chair for two.
