EULOGY

Tiny combinations of morphemes, you create and fracture culture
Into tiny flecks of gypsum glistening off the cellulose pulp,
Dried and fibrous in our hands, like a desert rose,
Pulmonary pressure producing articulate sparks off a polyglot’s larynx,
Igniting the combustible vegetation of semantic-conceptual fields
That burn uncontrollably for days on end.

O how I yearn for thee,
Your smooth, nimble semantics nuzzled between my frontal cortices,
Sweet stanzas stimulating sensory systems;
So selfish I have been, sugar.
Accept this bouquet and let us enjoy this caress
As my salty sweat smears your syntax.

FLAT POWER SPECTRAL DENSITY (NO SELF REMIX)

Pregnant mindbelly.
Detached, ethereal fetuses

generating hypnotic tones of aural sex,
motorboating their cherubic little lips

in the amniotic fluid, the sonic equivalent
of the Rapture in full reverse.

Theologians, I implore you,
there is something holy in this

audio pastiche tickling my eardrums with
wet pinky fingers made of music;

the soundtrack, such a sharp atmospheric contrast
to the life story it scores, with its poor character

development. And my feet sticking to the floor.
Sounding like the future if this were the past

is a symphonic quality held in high esteem.
The hum heard between walls, that white noise

in a black room, is retrospective foresight asking
what happened? But if we keep our thoughts still enough

we can hear our organism playing music
through an infinite series of biochemical processes;

our own DNA warbling away, trilling the song of creation.
Somewhere between mind and heart,

pale horses tow gilded wagons
with a cacophonous carousel calliope caboose,

the chromatic cavities whistling the steam of muses.
When the temperature of the steam is just right,

I put a stethoscope to my neck and listen.

NO SELF

If we keep our thoughts still enough

We can hear our organism playing music

Through an infinite series of biochemical processes;

Our own DNA warbling away, trilling the song of creation.

METAPHYSICAL ATTRACTION

There’s something organic about the acidic

Free jazz congruence of a short denim skirt and boho moccasin sandals,

Half moons the color of a blood orange

                                                                      dangling ever so slightly

                                                                                                      past the footbed.

Pineal wading in a decollete of scallop patterns

Tightly woven into polyester,

A cream canvas with velveteen flocking;

A Dimethyltryptamine dream of dimethyl terephthalate

Washed in a golden halo of fuzz;

                                                                                ~ an electrocuted nirvana.

This is what summer should feel like —

Ecru eyes that glisten like canary diamonds in the beacon of a police flashlight.

Spaghetti strings of coded data, we ride

Like great snakes through our molecular deserts.