from Ri

from Right on Time

a tangle of ambient
choices. the air we cry
almost breathed, deafening
the contours of what is this
social body. more awls in
the potato head. and the
lifework blasted. and the
wind licks semar's thumb.
who lives and how we
never know, and other
husks that if boiled in
saltwater may.

and that these lonely bodies aren't even birdshells. and yet they must
expire to something. someone writes the sockhop in the script of the
closed door to your room, where i worry you disappear in growing echoes
when one’s not looking. a digital photographic image, the void of the cute
glows like an exit sign from the crypt. and there's nowhere to go but that
room, just to see how you're doing, still there, solid as anything and not
waiting on any harbinger but common hunger, sleep, variable timestamps
unfixed from duration. holding quiet in speechless word, some trust in the
left alone, suspicious of any exterior or interior. and bathing duties in
flesh, hair. lines of laying circumvent, circumscribe tomorrow's quiet.
quietly the walls wear down. we go down on the open moon who goes
down on us.

used seeing. and the
proscription. patterns,
names of days, routine's
desires. underwear, menus,
kids, flavors. manifold
scenes of address, return to
sender. look at my
translatorship. look at the
edges of an illegible name
of eligibility. the proper
name keeps seeing stars,
gummy stars, chewy
uncertain, the
self-seriousness of far,
great kingdoms, walls
toppled in comedy. and the
very real girders of the
never or now. elation and
rage take shape from
sidewalk shadows, blue
dark extension on gray
mottled grains, concrete
forms. and asphalt. and
asthma. and assignation.
who's the puppetmaster
and who the poet? and
asks. the shadow of a
shepherd in a hazmat suit.
first as bracket then as
asterix. sic. ibid.

and reasons for talking and
untranslatable ellipsis. and a
sunrise and whatever it means in
a land between between's
between. cosmic fat, carnal
fundament. a fun lent.
decriminalized universe,
unordered. and in my end is my
beginning, egging a byline and
forgiving revenge. saddens itself
to specifics, like an everyday
mass, anathema, hardwon
inference. just a lowkey cave, see
it up there opening into the
rockside, some dragonflies
between here and there as if an
example could shadow the way
the city looks today, and you in it,
from here, speaking volumes.

and a sigh of resentment. and a sigh of resignation. the description a sigh of capacity's violence
to the poles of holding and withholding. to the hands in their usefulness and degradation. to
the sinews and to the marking. the scent of color and light, time's foil. it's a bunch of things in
a blender, the clown's mouth hungers too. mistaken lighting out and an exhale. mood,
movement. fun in nothing, misbegotten getting. home is beginning to give proper end. couldn't
be more different and i love you. time's jukebox is thirsty for quarters. who isn't thirsty for
pinball machines. and dead leaves. and the dead left. a standing image of a puddle in a pothole.
motorbikes and automobiles ride through it when it's not reflecting. forage for depiction in
what you see of cement. and dead-end grab bags. stories that end with interminable waiting.
listless rubbing of one's face. if one may be so lucky as to have a face. flesh to chafe. and the
nazi students pawed the ground with their feet and leered. and nothing outside the sound of
that scraping, only negation negating negation to an odd equilibrium. a negatively pictured not
nothing, like endurance. laurels or chump change. you can foot the tab and still be shown the
door. but it's a bad door. and behind every prize lies an unclosable eyelid. the city and the
country you could call it. how mask rhymes with foundation. no seeing meant. and identikits.
and iditarods. and employee tax numbers. and scurrilous gold coin pits, innumerable dead in
their depths. holy grail mocktails. and the red thread unraveled, nothing left but lines and air.
tomorrow what do you want to do. reading the dedication page in the daily grind. and a slowed
own, concrete ornament on concrete lawn. flamingo and gnome, mask dangling a
carrot-shaped mark from its carrot-shaped mouth. quarantining in a fence. quit music and
start again: this lawn oaf is bugger all for my concrete and the worms got nowhere to go. send
'em on to the miniature limbo pole. time again and time. reservations around use,
inconsistency. clear play on a nothing term, important big and important small. mainlines. and
schisms. and ruptures. and pours of difference. indecent encounter with tax codes. cases in
which two different things lifted in concealment. lines of affection, not-sureness. and a sigh of
regimentation. and a sign of redress. affectability. torches, touches, tourniquets, turns. both its
positive and negative minds. certain failure, destiny quelled. but you go on living in the
bulrushes. and in the bumrushes. and in the immoveable i. the book of life and the book of the
dead bound together.