Pillow Thought

a moment—
I had one

the walls of present-
future-past melted
into the aging skin
that drapes my skull

the thing I thought oblivion
became the everlasting and
all was moisture and body-heat—
love, compressed into temperature

the discordant many-voice these
ears have known, familiar-drifted
like dinghies in a passing mist—
rudderless creations, forever bobbing

strained through a lead crystal
colander, dripping out the holes,
emerging as streams of light-catching
prisms, projecting in full-spectrum color

life seemed a speck
as I fell into a white
space, without dimension
engulfed in dust-devil
energy ribbons—kinesis

five senses, my departing lovers
smiling, hand-combing tousled hair
under the discovery of dawn, and I hear
the thump of their feet down the stairs

and the courteous shutting of the
                                                               front door

they are callers with tangled
string—each afloat like kites
given to ficklest winds, knotted
up in high, dead branches

all experience—taste
smell, thought, touch
the muddled haze of after-sex
and my always nagging wanderlust

become
                one
                        sense

                       the
             only
sense

a knowing without words
and a feeling lacking expression, a
comforting blankness of All that
I would never name 'love'

neither was it a kind of peace—
indeed, no word has been or
yet will be invented to be
spoken by tender lips of any shade

I am before my
birth, and beyond
my death, and I
feel it all collide into

                                     singularity

I think it's called

                                     Beauty

Horns Blast Down the Walls

I slithered to this swivel chair by means forgotten—
the one with the flattened padding, fatigued
like a smooshed Atlas, muscles turned to jam under the
near-constant weight of my ass and my troubles—its
patterned pleather armrests, cracked and peeling in broad
strips, like elastic, translucent skin, dead shedding
from too long spent in the sun—eroded by years of my sharp
cogitating elbows, that nursed my bulging brow more often
than not, during mystical solstices of intuition and
nameless mundane mornings, when the remnant booze
steamed out of my pores through sweat-stiff denim,
as I would attempt a ritual self-resurrection, praying to a
miracle carafe of black coffee and one too many cigarettes—
the casters at its five-pronged base, like a star, still wound with
fur from at least three housedogs, old-age dead a while ago—
yet I have had a constant companion in the inanimate, as I sit
and sit, and still time creeps away in lurching tectonic slips—
my brain gone water-mad from too long spent staring into
life’s funhouse mirrors, lost in hallucinogenic nostalgias,
and my heart is parched and porous from this unending
drought, where the only nourishment is the white-hot
bead of the eternal star above and the dust of undertowing dunes
that shift beneath all things I have shaped, swallowing whole
the hollow pumice casts of every gemmed soul who’s drifted
through me, like an instantaneous disintegrate, cascading
down the slopes of Mount Vesuvius, leaving desiccated soup bones
of my many-peopled life—the buildings, art, gardens, stories, and
music now a skeleton village of ghastly reminiscence, frozen
in the instant I lost my population—so I kick their skulls down
its narrow streets of harsh abandon, poking my head
into the open-air houses and greeting the stillborn
figures of my friends, left standing upright, stuffed
and mounted by the divine taxidermist—and of course
I slump into a chair that’s just about ready to gasp its last and
give up the ghost, and I wonder if that might not also be
the most humane tack to set for my own internal fission—
to fling myself into the out-back dumpster and sledge
down the ruins of this decaying urb, clearing ground for
a new developer who’ll lift up some high-rise apartments—
this seat and I (and the universe) think it probably for the best


Some stream-of-consciousness trash for you. I was apparently too lazy to punctuate.