this is the want of the aftermath

with placid noon at an aftermath
of plush decibels wanting the
crush of angelwings; this is the
want of the aftermath; this
grieves along    we stand by,

watch with the anxious telling
of just beforeyesterday    and
we stroke stone; this is the
want of the aftermath; this
punctuates just beyond    we

stand by, tell the clouds whose
air it is they aresupposed to
whisper    and we blunt stone;
this is the want of the after
math; this wanders off east

which silent drawl

α.

To reembed the sense of the possible in
horror is to sing; to

dip your beak in the ink of the symbol is
to sing; to kill the

pronoun/ced active part/iciple past/iched
is to sing; and we do

β.
      the run of the poem is
Life  its gut
becomes soothe as it coils   it
sings when the roughage has sin
as work   it will deepen & care
γ.

what vitriol, which crumbs of emaciated fill of hate can perjure?
what
    tangent
    drawn, which
    silent drawl
    can spout this bowl’s venom and punch the foreign green?

δ

To break the journey with sound, with
a tinned accompaniment

defining horses & violins, with the
grief of strangers in

fractal shocklayers denuded of the
whole, this is to mix

age with sound, the fin of the rain
with what is dying here

today, now & begging for yet another
not.

ε.

The druid of unplan has
gaped and it

runs muckless circles
aghast; there

is a sullen momentum to
it though, as

if the garb of the fulcrum
of each circle

has memories of being a
point –
etymologied.

Look, in the world

Hark
The list of the risen sea is fallen
Dough; hark

This moot of all mootships has nulled
Its beak now;

Hark

The Seventh Sense – Audre Lorde
Women
who build nations
learn
to love
men
who build nations
learn
to love
children
building sand castles
by the rising sea.

Look, in the world – Basavanna
Look, the world, in a swell
of waves, is beating upon my face.

Why should it rise to my heart,
tell me.
O tell me, why is it
rising now to my throat?
Lord,
how can I tell you anything
when it is risen high
over my head
lord lord
listen to my cries
O lord of the meeting rivers
listen.

from factoids to theory

a new theory
if science, the life of facts, monotony,
cross-classified

dictation & sweet temper are as pale as
the mummified

non-betters, unmistakable spoons in the
cot of life,

where then is the sap but in individual
hells coppered

in observatories, primed pulp for atoms
to gorge out

a new theory.

factotum I
ten follicles
of hate
red with mask; ten
stipends giving
the state of being

hasten hark hem
here with
abandon; ten wishes
of hate
red with mask & being

factoid II

                  an angle in turn
 towards the inch that
burns away eclectic/un

named

           through the dark that is
           yours only when the ceaseless river
           climbs

           through the dark that is
           plumbed in channels speaking animal
           chimes

           through the dark that is
           visible as is the uncanny momentary
           crime-

the cipher raised

the cipher raised to the power of n
one – we greet

this god and fork our tales in appropriation
of one or more

in fact, in loose affiliations of the
porous and torn

the cipher raised to the power of n
ought – we claw

our mist into beginnings and renditions
of embalments

fragments of undiscovered song – II

Addendum to fragments of undiscovered song

iv.

To share my rust/fellow
                 tales of
                 far off
yesteryears pronged/lunged
                 to morrows
                 far off
to rust along with you/I
                 call tender
                 shoots

v.
A new mist reminds that day is
but the child

of a further debt   what
seems is further

than night would want   what
the sunk deeds

of my river could want is not
even belief

in the archer’s eye   at the roof
of my furthest fruit.

vi.
This forever is tinier by comparison
        to the stillness
        it is larger

Than time, fuller in circumference if
        only in silence-
        that is because

the red of a bloated circle outdoes its
        white, the plenitude
        ignorant of each.