I, ATOMIC
There’s June in Monday and trill in the flower,
even in the midst of empirical
winter, glowing ice in my pocket,
snow in my fist peeling viral thunder—
furiouser, furiouser, my love, my right,
abolished fiction, imagination’s rent
margin hardens even under ace
condition, twinned macramé wire on wire.
To the crisis born, the downward pool
of devolution laps embryonic,
each curl contains a level plus fold,
notched in double-bound triple rhythm—
the glass perception of perpetual
renewal, helix unwhirled as the fall
I, NOUMENAL
For the character and the content. For
the combination of the two. By which
formula may I speed your healing? I
remove the rods of genius glowing to go
a-historical. I am prodding the sand
like a bad, bad man. Like a raper with
a switch and a banner, one in each hand.
I court my violence. I play ball on that court.
The King is bored by my antics, which are
after all, useless. “Bring in the Minister
of Function,” he declares in front of me.
I become the Minister of Implication,
my senses enriched as uranium
and no less stable.
I, LYRIC
mid-March, perchance to sleep, to seem human
once this is the end of the lattice as I
knew it thought lined up
like dolls, soldiers, black and red
lack of sleep, a bump on the callous
of time profoundly idiotic, strangely
gripping as if that manic jabber were
good-looking flat morning on window
façade the split world catching radial pool
on fire but not here, not yet, and I
am
dying as you are dying distracted, in debt
to gods of will, malice,
indifference,
sheer fathom, sheer plumb as depth,
there is no bottom to feel, conceive
I, BIO
To learn without purpose or direction was
my benediction, because I valued thinking
& feeling. To scrape my way back
to feeling & follow
sound over water, that all
my love & complexity would be a ()
or some thing that wants
to be out of me & I am no more autobiography
than someone else’s impression. Nor am I,
to respect the life of me, the body
washing & vanishing its need of me.
If freedom is purpose, what frequency
shall I keen this day, bluer, mixed clouds & sun
a cocktail for grandeur that in my own way I,