Punctuated Equilibrium #18578

I’ve fallen victim to little blisses

the easy moments in the room

once      I’d ejaculate truth & thunder

at the edge of the Andaman sea

seek Sufi & psilocybin Charybdi

through Minotaur mazes of jungles     of cities

of electronic cork forests

bestride razored palisades  where none could find me

even if sometimes        I'd climb at home

ecstatic movements to a town or state

I’d not neuroned before

kissing moments elusive

every time a surprise how simple they are

avow wow         never let go     let go

throw yourself about your shoulders

like a worn traveling cloak

warm               warm              warm

but for the gales of forgetfulness

and knoll rolled fog

Easy to be junkie dependent

when the fade rides the fix from the very 1^st rush

Maybe a symptom of simple survival

18thousand days makes many changes

but it feels like I’ve mist stepped

fallen victim to close quiet blisses

karmically crouched, stout & encouched

eleven

April may be the cruelest month

but November is subtle as the woman who got away

took you for everything even your dignity

& yet you pine

still bewildered

February may be a knife to your throat

but November leaves you gasping for air

rising to the surface

hoping to break the surface

before the ice closes in

June jumps July just jangles & May may

but November does as she wishes

haughty or hale loving or leaving

and not only can't you stop her

you couldn't even explain to her

why it might hurt

The Mona Lisa

Art is like nipples on a man.

did you think I meant vestigial or useless?

that says more about us than it does nipples.

or art.

Art is like nipples on a man.

Glorious!

Walt

I took a nap with Whitman

all sinew & democracy

he leaves me in grass

& roots me in soil

which only slightly slows the soaring

the way you ease into a country curve

before speeding out onto open vistas

(breath)

With his grizzled lips & schoolgirl heart

he slays me slays me slays me daily

slays me daily

Whitman the Hitman

slays me daily

in everyday songs aimlessly whistled

in labor or love or no reason at all

Whitman the Hitman slays me

with muscular & musical word & intent

with new world naiveté

in a pre-cynical way

with a sigh & a secret & half laugh half sob

Haiku Variations: New York Faces (1)

Outside Lycée Français de New York

                                                       10:30 A.M.

She had a look on

her face like she’d just stepped in

something nasty &

that something was the universe

Snowbud & the Squirrel

On the couch

sipping white tea

slow brewed

while Dexter Gordon soars 

between the wild flowers

vased beside the laptop

and the porch door

Back’s turned

flirtatiously

I’m playing hard to get

with the blank page

Thanks to Every Axe that Broke my Heart

Dead Tony told me

“every 5 years I’d look back & think

‘fuck I was an asshole then,’ until

I finally realized that means I’m

most likely an asshole

now”

& I look back on every midnight lamentation

& I relive every moment bemoaned

& every scab-ripping rail toss turn

I take back the curses & pleas

& thank you each and every

for doing what I hadn’t the balls to do

but needed desperate doing

molt my walls

of calcified dreams

& ossified fears

& inadequacies so internalized they acted inherent

& I could crablike grow

past the point of safe

to softshelled sensate

& scuttle across the sand

to settle here