Alright, y'all. Don't let me monopolize this thread with my surrealist drivel--and I will if you let me! Please, someone, post something!
Ocean Roll On
I am drunk and the music has tangled me up
like it has so many years ago. Times before
have me floored like a flower exploring
the space between pages, like an MC on a mic
poppin questions to the Absolute.
In the netherworld comic strip of my memory,
I am peeling an onion, an ongoing onion made
of mercury and sand. And somewhere between
here and there, you and I open our hands
and they are empty, as empty as Aquarius.
When you opened me, you never told anyone
that I was serious, did you? The deck of cards
was stacked before it was cut, shuffled with
salt and somewhere along the coast a man
is running on and on at the mouth.
In a small, unaware country, a woman sits and
waits. Where there was once a dock, there
is only a contrived daisy resting its way through
its growth cycle, a temporary burst of sunshine
rocking the gravel of the ground
And when it stuns us, we shout, "What have we done?"
Because, like all wisdom, we know that we ourselves
are to blame, and if we can smile at that,
we can smile at that and be happy in simplicity.
Yet, I strive for something more and so
Make my world sick in the process. I’m not talking
a vomiting sort of sickness, some retching disease,
but perhaps a slow rot, sweet like a cherry, diluted
slightly so as to produce a flatulent smell
like a flat tire. If meaning is random,
Then we have spoken too much philosophy
in close quarters, dissected too many pale frogs
under the moonlight of sterile amps, cracked
so many fibrous tentacles to reveal their tender
insides like sushi. And that is outrageous.
But when you stop and float there, when you really
look at it like you are doing now, what opens up
is a simple screen door, then it bangs shut
again, leaving you behind, miles behind, under
stretching dotted lines like stretch marks,
Those colorless and affectless lines on the road
that bore us. Before, when I mentioned salt water,
what caught in my throat was the emotion.
A figure moves me and I stutter with my hand,
an impotent gesture, perverse, poignant, irrelevant,
And striking. The proverbial they flipped the century
like a turtle shell and when they were done,
they cut it in half like a mild stick of butter.
Somewhere, we know there is a mountain–
a clear mountain of blue.
But there is a blue bird singing a simple sound
over the green ocean that unfolds below.
Around the city the hammer falls and explains
a peculiar human game that grows from the notion
that we are separate and we are separate
While fences separate us, they keep us apart
from strong cables colored green and stretchy
like the stalks of daisies. Daylight strikes
like a benevolent weapon, automatic, compassionate,
and this is my idea of God, one single point
Exploding; one innocent eye that watches as if it were
a hawk overflowing with hilarious emotion,
tumbling somersaults of laughter, summer turning to fall
and back again through spring, through the frozen sheet
or dismal rain of winter, the overcast tea-colored sky
Brimming overhead, hiding that secret grin.
Tell me what you see, tell me what you mean.
When you outstretch your hand like that, would you
like me to take it? These mixed signals confuse me,
so much smoke, crushed waste in an ashtray
Waiting for a redeemer. What concrete, fictional mythology
we have, and what wonder! Where can I sign up
for touch? Who teaches love these days?
For in empty classrooms they sit, our children,
blindfolded by ridiculous wars, the bigotry
Of it all offending their fresh eyes. But when
I stretch out my lips to speak, the imagery seems
so silly and slick, split like a bad painting
under artificial light, like some elementary newspaper
collage, letters collected together in a ransom message.
If we are fortunate, that melts and buckles back to nature,
where proverbs are unsung and there is a quality
of unconcern. A thick curtain has been thrown back
over everything, and that moment of laughter
hurls itself across the rolling hills.
But certainly I misspeak, and love the grammatical errors
in a sensual way. The sense of the movie is nonsense,
as he would have it, pondering fields of lilies like some
boisterous philosopher, a blind individual shucking
salty sea creatures, digging in, really reaching for meaning
Where there is a full bowl of nothing. So, dip in the ink!
Revel in the peelings of a sense of urgency. Somewhere,
a zealot kneels in fervent prayer; somewhere, a sinner
sinks in the lust of self-destruction, smiling at the progress
he is making. His teeth are crooked
And through them we can see the windows of eternity flapping
like some mad teenager’s jaw, with all the residual effects
of chewing tobacco and too much pizza sliding across his tongue.
Several years later, he has a child of his own, and thus
the mystery goes on, spinning and straight.
