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Date Posted: 13:47:07 05/25/00 Thu
Author: 88
Author Host/IP: usr-sfe-61.hubwest.com /
Subject: Hand Movements

On one hand, when I come to th gristle
I put everything I do through th long slow stroke
Pushed back to th wall, I hit th fast choke
chop to yr throat, don’t even lean to poke a hole in my float
There’s only one boat and we’re on it so go tie th bonnet down

On th other hand, stratacombed habituence
congregates non-constituency into culturally specific inconsitecies
A virtual slam-dance of redundant hypocrisies
and over abundant oxymorons such as, ‘War is good for th economy’
are dichotomously doled out in seal of approval
spin doctor recommended daily allowances

In my minds eye, my romance perforce
may not yet be easily ascribed
A prerequisite dialectic must first rust into trilobites
Th moon transbender tumescence would not be far from th pint
Weather reports indicate Coltrane on sax, Joyce on th syntax

In any dark, smoky room looms th key, th loosely freed discipline
The scheme seems to be tied to th flick of a wrist
th most timely twist; catchin’ th rhythm as schism succumbs
on hand again as th chasm is spanned

My epistle is, I must admit, fraught with pitfalls
and not fit food for th feeble-minded
Within every nook and cranny lurks
a canny ancestor’s manuscript or
one of nature’s anomalies, i.e.
th platypus, surfacing thru recombinant stew

Askew views th kaleidoscope as angle accrue
At th turn of a phrase; th wonder is new
A covenant is inscribed into th hearts of sheim
not graven into stone or inked onto papyrus

I stand on th skull beam eye socket
housed in mirrors enuf to catch a whiff
of th pied hyper spy societal pornopolies
I size up run o’th mill, toe-th-line avatars
as they messiah-nize dirt simple principles
into phantasmal, orgiastic bombastions that no homine
towards harmonious balance inclined could possibly inhabit

My snake baits my mongoose
but any hunter would prey on my rabbit
As snail darter flicks minisculated semaphore
to last stand sequoia sentinels; eurythmia is my life
my two edg’d tongue sword that
cuts to th quick anything it encounters

I have to put it away, keep it sheathed
cough discreetly into my napkin
I only pull it out once in awhile
and only in front of a captive audience
which in due course is dust clouded
mysteriously corralled thru th clearly marked exits

I have been high on th slack tide, waitin’ for th big ride
I’ve been dry until midnight just to see what it’s like
When I first heard as baby; space sliced by th intricacies of word
I knew in th abstract perfect tense that
I had something relevant and aching with clarity
strapped down to a rapidly diminishing scapegoat of naiveté

I heard th swing sung, slung low against
th elliptical arc of th universe’s quivering lip
pursed in epiphanies of vaguely remembered aromas
I am sub-light momentum; barely able to comprehend
th ponderous cop-out, th rigid fluency of deception
that is somehow spontaneously kept aloft
on a delicately unbalanced bassackwards industrial wish-wash
served up with a zestily sauced innuendo ala carte blanche

I fire off salvos in th opposite direction
just to feel th ensuing percussion
Discussion crops rot amongst babbling books
all stacked unto self; th shelf drops off
and if you aren’t aware of th deep water
you’re gonna be crab bait as sure as
th Sun barely shines on Neptune

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