a life of one’s own
O I am a happy little line!
I can say intaglio desecrations
even braille satori extravaganza
is not beyond my awesome wit
besides I am so cute and furry
in my anapestic fury
can you do this?:
demimonde coupons redeemed, careening
Old Believers quarry melodic coins
translated into pantomime headlands
like heralds sleeping on their shields
Ha! Ha! Ha! I didn’t think so
O! it is so wonderful
to have a life of one’s own!
I can walk like this:
la dadada dee dada
la dadadada dee
I can be “uplifting”!:
O noble six hundred!
noble, noble, your nobleness!
into the Valley of Death
pretty “inspiring,” huh?
also I can “paint” “pictures”!:
flecked with absorbing ideograms
salmon-colored wind section
like safari reflections in chrome
paint your own picture then…
(what else?) O!
I can “draw” “conclusions”!:
the day will come when
the covers will be lost
pretty “conclusive” I would say—
and I do! I do say!
I am but a little cloud
dropping my pants in Moscow!
Ha! Ha! Ha!
that was a good one!
the brain police can’t catch me!
wait a minute! what’s going on!
everything’s getting dark, Sam!
O I die! I faint! I fail!
I am dead, Hortensia,
if ever thou didst love me
absent thee from Felicity
for a while
ARGH!? O! O!
there are such beautiful “lights”
I won’t care
Bonnie had brown hair Bonnie had no care the night was
right for forgetting If I ever can feel the queer fear of
surrender I will have answered the mellow cheer of ages
that never answer or ask the fellow who pleases to seal
the keg is awash in emery jungles of temple doom why do
the angels avenge & send endless miasmas is a weird word
why does everything tighten why is blocked in never
saying if feeling were a way it would never fear itself
but answer all comers with grace abandon all cares the
answer is dear to my heart which can never erase Linda’s
hurt yet I live I try to elevate my slave heart I try to
stand under giants who are only friends unmasked Annie is
a girl who has brown hair & does her job she is plain &
pretty plain & pretty girls are nice but in mystery dreams
beauty is exquisitely terrifying like eyes of the night
where werewolves dance in blond wombs & tear their eyes
with hatchets because we die even though we claim that’s
what werewolves want a flower is another answer that also
dies but is not having been a brave act of stature statues
may speak to us of truth But they are there for us & we
are there too How many false looks have I been I cannot look
at the number of years I feared freedom I hope to fall
under the face of the pace of light & laugh while everyone
who is they are scandalized I won’t care I’ll rise to the
surface of a plain girl’s heart & be at peace with death
which has no hair but is plain & pretty
trying to be adventurous
you never learned
the lonesome roads
using silken cords
with your eyes
to float on
the pearl’s skin –
but I don’t see!
laden with moments
on melodic bark
dusk in crannies
the tangles unwind
in the clarity