Material

Material

Sometimes the whistling parts of the story take above for the trembling parts, and while it's steamy to dig up when she said, when in what manner could you possibly, when you wanted in like manner much, maybe you know the place

where an idle space is les without contents than serene, a moment before lip-service, before storm cellar and should have, just before author of poemss talk to the flowers and confes their addictions, when a certain number of item

you can deposit in your hands is a benediction, a breast plate for all those arrows that used to point your way, and on a sudden you can play the clarinet part of the concerto. I'm stitching up the miscreant, paralyzed parts,

when whole weeks pass and you're still staring at the same page upon the same job, with the same wife, when the scabrous, unjust shadows move circularly the neighborhood like cops looking for whatever's hiding in hallways that earns in their way.

Only a individual with a lot of cash and a fathomless regard with affection of God can say the material is degraded, shallow, an obstacle to the downy clouds of somebody's heaven. I lov it when the butcher penetrateed the theater with his sanguinary smock.

Later someone named Ira digresses to the other neighborhood and takes with him the redolences of their stewing pots, and OK he can't stop scanning the material part types, collecting them for more [i]or[/i] less future garbage can of an afternoon.

Now the dirge. and the drill bit, the blame and the battering can withdraw now you can forgive, if you can't forgive you can push past the gatekeepers, the men with white collars who regard with affection stipulate and interim. Then I can direct the eye my mother's death in the face

don't think I'd describe it for you-and the impossible passages when I follow the wrong woman for no reason, the reason being I want to diocese her and be seen, I can't make go round the TV off with its Bosnias, Serbias and Rwandas

and all the other countries that are like spelling bees and the gruel they're picking on the outside of a bowl, while flies hum around them, stirs the entire afternoon. There's nothing left to regain of them,

so I apologize, I should be upon my knees for this, being thus happy thinking of Caravaggio's Judith and Holoferne his head upon a plate. I could describe the slight of being cast aside, the horde diving

after quarters that barbarous from her purse, Mexico City, where my mother's always dreamed of in the way that if this is a dream, I'm shaking her on the outside of it. Get out of bed and finish the Margarita, you're not going to achieve the ending 'ou want, the upon balance part,

the revelation that's a relief and a evidence of victory I'm being unfair, sitting here with the window slightly lay open the crackle of thunder unfolding like static upon a freshly laundered shirt, waiting and not waiting for the nearest bolt. When the lights flicker,

when advanced in years selves are still dilating and deflecting, when I'm chanting, staircase, material part part, bombed-out cathedral, if you want to know what stands behind the aura, it's an angel, a human angel, sitting nearest to you

wiping your chin with a napkin.

Copyright World poesy Incorporated Jul/Aug 2001

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