Thew at Dada Poetry Salon

i

eat cloud

Inhale:you Exhale:we

Even silence is celebration

Afternoon rain sautés stone stoops

Cast iron sizzle simmers my sleep

Umbrella my dreams

Casserole cozy comforter

Cumulous cakebake easy as pie

Baste me in rain

entities must not be multiplied beyond necessity

entia non sunt multiplicanda praeter necessitatem

William of Okham

I pieced you together with more spit than glue, with more chisel than hammer, from Occam’s remnants persistent like eyecrust on the morning after enlightenment; from glitter and debris and everything kept and everything razored and every she I’d never met; from enlightenment gained contemplating tight taut and eyecrust and 11 pirouettes and the dig of a nail and an arclight gasp; from blueprints gone scarlet from spilled spit and glue and the unnamed smell that permeates my memory; with kinks honed as ruthlessly as Fred Astaire pared superfluous; a tessellated space bigger inside than out; from oak and ivory and suedes skinned from imagined animals and driftwood and goo; from proposals proposed in Aramaic and Fortran with 2X4’s stolen from beach-property constructions and lathed to spec with immaculate perception; from wet; from snap; from arch and pinion and scratchhiss and moan; with inspired planning and planned inspirations and byzantine negotiations with baroque predilections and will and action and laissez-faire charm, and still
on completion I was completely

surprised

Terraforming

If it were my world people would purple
If it were my world the alphabet would explain all you need to know
If it were my world scowling would be scofflaw and pot sacrosanct
If it were my world wars would be creampie-fought by clown clad leaders
If it were my world love wouldn’t ache but being an asshat would itch like a cat

SMS < 3

The slice of mind pie consumed isn’t proportional to time spent

Longlean open Lightning

teslas my skin

kiss my back

Your morning sounds a warm bowl of home

Adore, not a door No, you’re a door You

open & new vistas I see:

Lotus blossoms river-roll a valley. A single cloud thrust through murky waters on a starscattered lake. A finger on a thigh. 3 moons in a violet sky.

nothing to say

I have the urge to say things

There is another universe, very

close, so close that everything

exactly sames; everything; exactly; except

we are drinking hot chocolate together.

I take great comfort in that.

And: I watched your eyes work your lips like marionette strings. Lifting your meat puppet to action

The best sort of writer’s block

Poets are a funny tribe — scaling heights by plumbing depths;

my pages lay fallow my pen wadi dry

I’ve written through my saltwatered time &

my concepts are crystals cutpolished for clarity and shine &

Gee Dubbya isn’t president &

I’ve been too busy fucking to write a poem

Oh sure the world still injustices and needs a poet’s utter

& sure some ideas may need a spit & shine &

lovescars can crack again like bones brittled by breaks & bruises;

life can offer kernels poetic from places unseen &

no doubt it will

but today today today

I’ve been too busy fucking to write a poem

& yes Erato you can be the ficklest bitch

amused to be wooed

with sacrifices of salt & blood

but today today today

I’ve been too busy fucking to write a poem

& it looks like it’s gonna be

that way

tomorrow