TAROT POEM ZERO PART TWO
1.
But now follow us as we are carried beneath the City-skin in an omnidimensional 1982 Buick LeSabre.
Hear the rustle of stomach-paper uncrumpling
in a gaseous crescendo
of cheshire chess pieces trading places
as the performance becomes subcutaneous.
2.
Raspberry release of sighing Pentacles.
A storm germinates in the labyrinth of plumbing.
3.
There's a Sadness in this City's Stomach
paper-machéd in peppered bacon
with grease that drips off that Plate Glass Ceiling just under the sky.
Coagulated syntax congeals in our Throats,
so we don't speak, just release a raspy hiss like pressure from a pent-up pipe.
4.
It's green weather in the Stomach tonight.
All operating systems set to "microwave".
the wind's blowing nanotech seeds across the Superscape
babies running, stumbling around , shouting algorithms
to Get Closer To the RUBBER RAINBOW.
5.
My night-milk peels its eyelids in a porous language.
It's something that somebody doesn't deserve
written out in random rubber numerals
so that they cherish their wants under salivy tongues
to the crunch of the church of the hole in your stomach,
rabbits and sparrows and shirtless stepfathers brandishing rare rubber razorblades.
The blood walks out of my gums
and has a talk with my fingernail dirt
(i've been writing this poem my whole life)
cinnamon fingernails peeling raspberry scabs off my soul.
To the people playing violin underwater in my head:
6.
I was raised not to believe that mystery is majestic.
I was raised by the Shaman of the Semen under my Fingernails
and the anger in my Stomach.
I was brought up by witches in a torn-apart church
invisible witches that played lots of cello.
Raised on greco-roman gelatin-burgers on rice,
they taught me to pray for constant destruction.
then they taught me the secrets of Germination.
I would often wake up with bruises during those times.
They showed me what few of us know:
That every one of us is an island of fire
and a handful of grain.
We would torture the shampoo til it played "Judgement" on trumpet.
We did have a trumpet.
TAROT POEM ZERO
PART
If I could talk to You now,
the air would be filled with raspberry flowers
magnetizing the wind to Your hair.
I saw you sitting in your pile of burned-up reasons
just fucking grinning.
I saw you in italics that time:
almost falling over.
You said to me
in all these beautiful things that weren't even words
you said to learn about that Big Bleeding Eye of Infinite Yesses
before i get too tehuty on my own damp horn.
Have I figured that out yet?
The sparkling midnight is burning my eyes.
My yesses are eating their young.
I'd yell "timber" but it's my tongue that's the Tower falling over
stumbling over rubber letters
in a drunken attempt at alphabet acrobatics.
I wanted to write to You
but I still don't know who you are.
I remember talking with you about the different kinds of grace
skyscrapers, telescopes and graves
and graves have a way of digging themselves up
like ripe potatoes
and potato children grow out of dead rotten
mothers underground.
I wanted to remember Your biscuits
as if you were the one who made them
powdering my blankets with soft little paws
making patient paintings made out of mountains with the sheets.
And it gets these days to where I can't tell my voice from Yours.
The cats' names were Rocco and Spout.
And my Violins deface the blankets with some vapid avant-scratch.
i give birth to the Moth
with the eyelid-wings.
My milk has the flavor of raspberry flowers
and my voice is barely a whisper
and then Night happens
and i take my baby to the City
and it's wrapped up in my arms
and we hear the sounds of all the lights and people's voices bleeding into a single strange and oceanic chord
and thin lines of red velvet appear here and there to light the way
and there's this monstrous Feeling building in my Stomach like a puffing-up biscuit
something i'd never try to describe
and i cough it up onto the pavement
and put my mothbaby in the the passenger seat and get in.
1.
But now follow us as we are carried beneath the City-skin in an omnidimensional 1982 Buick LeSabre.
Hear the rustle of stomach-paper uncrumpling
in a gaseous crescendo
of cheshire chess pieces trading places
as the performance becomes subcutaneous.
2.
Raspberry release of sighing Pentacles.
A storm germinates in the labyrinth of plumbing.
3.
There's a Sadness in this City's Stomach
paper-machéd in peppered bacon
with grease that drips off that Plate Glass Ceiling just under the sky.
Coagulated syntax congeals in our Throats,
so we don't speak, just release a raspy hiss like pressure from a pent-up pipe.
4.
It's green weather in the Stomach tonight.
All operating systems set to "microwave".
the wind's blowing nanotech seeds across the Superscape
babies running, stumbling around , shouting algorithms
to Get Closer To the RUBBER RAINBOW.
5.
My night-milk peels its eyelids in a porous language.
It's something that somebody doesn't deserve
written out in random rubber numerals
so that they cherish their wants under salivy tongues
to the crunch of the church of the hole in your stomach,
rabbits and sparrows and shirtless stepfathers brandishing rare rubber razorblades.
The blood walks out of my gums
and has a talk with my fingernail dirt
(i've been writing this poem my whole life)
cinnamon fingernails peeling raspberry scabs off my soul.
To the people playing violin underwater in my head:
6.
I was raised not to believe that mystery is majestic.
I was raised by the Shaman of the Semen under my Fingernails
and the anger in my Stomach.
I was brought up by witches in a torn-apart church
invisible witches that played lots of cello.
Raised on greco-roman gelatin-burgers on rice,
they taught me to pray for constant destruction.
then they taught me the secrets of Germination.
I would often wake up with bruises during those times.
They showed me what few of us know:
That every one of us is an island of fire
and a handful of grain.
We would torture the shampoo til it played "Judgement" on trumpet.
We did have a trumpet.
TAROT POEM ZERO
PART
If I could talk to You now,
the air would be filled with raspberry flowers
magnetizing the wind to Your hair.
I saw you sitting in your pile of burned-up reasons
just fucking grinning.
I saw you in italics that time:
almost falling over.
You said to me
in all these beautiful things that weren't even words
you said to learn about that Big Bleeding Eye of Infinite Yesses
before i get too tehuty on my own damp horn.
Have I figured that out yet?
The sparkling midnight is burning my eyes.
My yesses are eating their young.
I'd yell "timber" but it's my tongue that's the Tower falling over
stumbling over rubber letters
in a drunken attempt at alphabet acrobatics.
I wanted to write to You
but I still don't know who you are.
I remember talking with you about the different kinds of grace
skyscrapers, telescopes and graves
and graves have a way of digging themselves up
like ripe potatoes
and potato children grow out of dead rotten
mothers underground.
I wanted to remember Your biscuits
as if you were the one who made them
powdering my blankets with soft little paws
making patient paintings made out of mountains with the sheets.
And it gets these days to where I can't tell my voice from Yours.
The cats' names were Rocco and Spout.
And my Violins deface the blankets with some vapid avant-scratch.
i give birth to the Moth
with the eyelid-wings.
My milk has the flavor of raspberry flowers
and my voice is barely a whisper
and then Night happens
and i take my baby to the City
and it's wrapped up in my arms
and we hear the sounds of all the lights and people's voices bleeding into a single strange and oceanic chord
and thin lines of red velvet appear here and there to light the way
and there's this monstrous Feeling building in my Stomach like a puffing-up biscuit
something i'd never try to describe
and i cough it up onto the pavement
and put my mothbaby in the the passenger seat and get in.
