im a raccoon and these are my metaphorical shinies

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Poems

Inside every world there is another world trying to get out,
and there is something in you that would like to discount this world.

The stars could rise in darkness over heartbreaking coasts,
and you would not know if you were ruining your life or beginning a real one.

You could claim professional fondness for the world around you;
the pictures would dissolve under the paint coming alive,

and you would only feel a phantom skip of the heart, absorbed so in the colors.
Your disbelief is a later novel emerging in the long, long shadow of an earlier one—

is this the great world, which is whatever is the case?
The sustained helplessness you feel in the long emptiness of days is matched

by the new suspiciousness and wrath you wake to each morning.
Isn’t this a relationship with your death, too, to fall in love with your inscrutable life?

Your teeth fill with cavities. There is always unearned happiness for some,
and the criminal feeling of solitude. Always, everyone lies about his life.

Your contours of behavior are spiralling
out of control. We think you have
challenges with time perception. Spatial
organization. Your filing [pile] system is
a disaster. We recommend cranial
electromagnetic therapy.

There is a brain-machine in Astoria,
Queens, NYC. Report immediately to the
facility. Spaghetti nightmares in the
gulag archipelago will be alleviated.
Speak, as every speaker must: Open.

You intercepted cosmic noise as a child.
Do you remember?

Yes.

And what did you do with the memory?

I forget.

Are you addicted to excitement?

Yes.

Human consciousness is a sinkhole into a
netherworld. We talk to each other as if
we exist. Are you in control of… a
psychogeographic domain? Impulse control.
Perception. Sensing things… coming into
the nervous system.

We operate a submersible computer
interface to “speak” with squid-like
extraterrestrials under the icy crust of
Ganymede.

Your Volkswagen Beetle is a brokedown
palace.

At age 84 or 94 you are just trying to do
the right thing. Eat. Survive. 24 or 44.
People make noise.

Your coördinates, please.

Are you here/there/now?

Hyperfocus. And you achieve clarity.
Blur the edges.

Focus on the [hyper]active personality.

Make art.

Fuck.

We are algebraic structures. Exponents of
each Other. I am already/not yet. You are
a remote possibility. I am radical
Uncertainty.

Prometheus steals fire from Olympus.

Burn the Forest.

Wilderness.

Experimental Station # 2 in a flat
wilderness in 1907.

Are you satisfied with your image feedback
system?

Experimental TV.

You turn [on] Television

Television turns you
[on].

The consumers of reality are hungry again.
Are you going to feed them?

delete
return
shift

Primordial loneliness.

Image-text bombardments from the ether.

She speaks of Neolithic Britain & stone
rings functioning as panopticons.

Tape recorder experiments.

You cannot hold on to any of it. The flux.
The flicker.

Sippers of coffee, unite.

We are temporal beings.

Spaghetti nightmares in Astoria, Queens.

Eat the orchiette.

Eat.

My breast is in her mouth. She is tonguing
my nipple & palming my right buttock.

I should keep talking talking talking… and
then nobody gets in the way. Am I
right?… or am I right?

Physical bodies in space & time.

Our bodies are floating over/under each
other.

We are on a lost highway.

People “fluctuate” before your eyes.

Also means you.

Come. Please come. She whispers.

I feel unsettled.

Like maybe… what?

The musicality of your existence… the
silence… the calm.

She feels my cock coming to life.

I kiss your Apocalypse.

…

I am sending you a “wire-photo.” Can you
see it? Dots on a page. Points. Pixels.

I remember your bottom lip catching on the
dome of my cock. The upper lip soon
followed. And the blowjob commenced.

I lay there in absolute disbelief.

Me.

Of all people.

…

She says she can feel the pulse in my cock
when I come.

Squirt squirt squirt.

We are everyday people, all of us. Digging
into the every day. Digging into
existence. Trying to make it squirt.

Keep punching the keys.

Keep… believing.

When I lived in the mountains,
I thought the same color meant the same taste.
Tangerines, oranges and the sun. Citrus.

When I saw my great-grandmother peel a tangerine with her bare hands
while men used knives for oranges, she became God.
I imagined what she could do with the sun.

He dreams of tossing his eyes
into the well of the coming city,
dreams of dancing toward the abyss,
of forgetting his days that devour things,
days that create them,
dreams of rising, of collapsing
like the sea-forcing secrets to birth themselves,
starting a new sky at the end of the sky.

You are an empty vessel,
Sabine says. So take everything in.
But how do I make myself vacant.
Outside the city of Dresden
the mountains are miraculous
in that they exist as strange
but beautiful chalk-like formations.
They arise from no place
like an apparition. How do I know
what is real and what is not
I asked her and she said, You
tell yourself you don’t know
to confuse yourself. But you do.
Wittgenstein, perhaps due to his family
and their vast cruelties,
spent his entire life trying
to find the perfect equation,
truth as a numerical solution.
A poem is alchemical
like magic or tarot.
In other words, the words
in this poem are performative.
What I say to you, in this poem,
will happen, is happening,
as I say the words. After today,
I am only an empty vessel.
A series of glass vitrines, endless
rooms, or an emptied out
archive. I will take everything in.
Collect, and contain, devour and swallow
every single bell of light and all
of your trembling cells of sorrow.
Here, even, now you can try it:
open your mouth
and feed me your vowels,
sweet in their magnificence,
radical and terrible.
Watch as I transform, then vanish
before you.