“quasar the vermillion dust” (series)


part I.

as in as was

knife & a candle or maybe
a bic lighter glowing or
causing the glow. i gave up
trying to figure it out a long
time ago & you should too.
even if i had a dorsal fin
& sharp teeth & cruised
the beach looking for dinner
(as is said by some)
i doubt you’d get more than
a groan from the piss-puddle
jumpers. what can you say
but tough crowd?

fins & teeth to the side; i’m
hungry but for the moment
i’m settling down to listen to
JH trying to crawl out of Wain-
wrights Strange Weirdos. yeah,
symbolism & all that is a
regular motherfucker these days;
tell me all about it.

i’d chat more with the mirror,
but like i said, i’m hungry &
the line gets longer while we
talk. supersonically staying in
one place won’t get me there
any faster. i’m not sure if that
growl was from stomach or eyes,
so far past equivalency of
the moment.

i’ll chew, lick & swallow until
satiation. same as always,
at least when asked.

———————————–

part II.

heresy on the potomac

lemming-angels on parade. there
is no crossing post vigil on Vine
Street, where kids play in the street,
fiddling around with zippos running low
on fuel. even with the flint ground
low & sparks hard to come by
everything still gets lit.

all the words spoken, written &
thought require more than is asked
with them. pseudo-intellectual ex-
pressions in daily vernacular. those
dirty looks shot my way feed my ego;
real hatred is as inspired as deep
love but given voice so much easier
than prayer.

shower-clean frame emergent
archetypical; any who follow must
(by all theory) listen to the words &
music. some go on to prove it later,
others sit in creaky chairs telling
stories about that time spit & paper
came together to build a better
cigarette.

———————————————————

part III

it ain’t makin’ sense

breathless.
waiting on leftover oxygen
(it shows up green
in the interstellar void)
for a fix. how to turn
blue-to-red in three easy
steps.

conditioned to breath.
it can’t be fought without
a fight, & even then you’ll
lose. it comes from the giant
convection ovens, hot & heavy
& everything the physicists
warn us to avoid.

highway signs are missing,
there’s no perspective.
relativity almost works,
gives the quantum mechanics
inspiration to proceed.
by now we’ve got a tracing of
a copy of a map.

cars sleeping beside the road.
not impossible
but not where we should be,
& nobody knows where that is,

drained of whatever energy i’d
swallowed. melting hours reform;
everyone feverishly transfixed
on a point in space-time
seemingly in need of redesign. i can
agree with that.

—————————————-

part iv

contents under pressure

i can breathe therapy
into heartbreak wearing
silver shoes. knock down
the slight noise of footwear
tappin’ down cement hallways
to speak plain. kill the echo
with a hissing canister
under pressure, punctured by
restorative moments of
grace, calm, & hope.

elsewhere squirrel rabbit-wannabe
traces paths of gutters &
ditches hoping to find food or
water. elemental hope; always
around the next corner
(extended faith in satisfaction)
retro cool but worried all the time.

like grabbing a skinny strip
of skin & bone, cutting through
then looking down to see if it’s
tail or neck.

i can breathe therapy
back into empty necks,
replace silver slippers,
kill the echo with that
canisters kiss after
puncturing it in a moment
of extreme crisis &
untamed reaction.

—————————————–

part v.

closing time

heard from a messenger;
that girl is smiling
because she is breathing
the same air running wild
in my alveoli. disbelief
on my part until the realization
we were listening to the
same music too. might even
have shared dinner
& split a milkshake down
the middle.

i reached out for her
with a name that was &
wasn’t hers, hoping she’d
see i was only here
because i needed her as much
as she needed me.

—————————————————-

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