Three Poems

Thomas Cook

Making a career out of making entrances. The snowflake commonly represented in a very similar shape, clocks & centerpieces. Good furniture has come of this. I always wanted to just cut a hole & put a lamp right through.
The chinchilla had a heart-attack very close to the cat. The two of them together, a serving bowl would fit over. A sidewalk should be here. Rejoinder: blanket shaves good as a razor. All we could give was our time.
Blush & slippers. A dandelion is on fire until it’s gone. The notion has always been to move through a fabric, vital for the heart. To the extent you could say that I carrying lighted parts of myself in & out.
Answer to Important Question
Does this begin with a stone? Smooth. What’s inside of it? Bright flashes of light of course & great heat, a young girl that would die to be included in any Catholic ritual, the cymbals of intra-earthen communication, great tectonic cinemas, minutiae of the fire & ice together & contained—I see piles of stones everywhere, then comes lines. Lines: this is what fire uses to travel from one place to another. Do not be fooled by a jump—that is simply a line of air. Lines can connect beneath or above stones & two lines often come together in a snap & crack or they cry out as if surprised at their own connection. Any attempt at tracing boiling water only comes down to the fact that water is primordially above everything else, gradually trickling down & thickening—thinness is that much quieter. Water does not have lines until a certain thickness—from air to rock—when the elements of stone, lines, & water connected in a relationship best improvised by our own digestions in a matter of steps: a line necessarily has a length but not a distance, the top of her nose, dancing lessons & Christmas dresses on bargain. Why approach objects in the world at all? Toss them in the air with teeth like feral young? Another suspension inside a clover: need a plucked feather? The pocketmirror brigade opens for our expanse, wheeling gold fortunes unmasked & stroking in a fleet, arms contracted by their own desire, moving forward & backward at the same time—cosmetically impossible. Plastic mask of tangible colors & textures, the uncouth surviving ending intact always the surest sign that there is a leafy frond below the trickle & through the rock. I make a pleasure. What is ingrained. The purpose of the stool versus the purpose of the chair. Chugging in the locomotive sense. The locomotive sense. Blistered the same from the cold & the heat. My compass doubles as shoelace. I could use an ill lust ration. Make it tonight. What about flies. Standing exactly on end & on edge. Endage. Vitamin in the sluice again gives a quickbottle. Carryover from the previous alphabet most every line but add a flair here & there—the motorcycles of naught, of path—os & ological. Cranked. Plosive maestro, please provide us positive periwinkle pennies, hope being we plug em & pullover the placid side of popped pusherings for aplenty. Couldn’t it be so? Couldn’t catalogue & instance just be along for the ride? Brave without the pheromones, I nose a bleach hanky the river washed clean, believe me. How otherwise could it have been handed off? Meniscus of course enters in, but his play has been in plenty of touchies before & we had better names for him then: lopsided, choice, & hold to name a few. The parseitecture looks gripped here, why don’t the horses rest, perhaps bat a fly out in the park? Why don’t I just rip grass up with my knees until moisture makes clay. This is the proper channel for the more-clayed-existence marathon, where the call has come in from the cay & sports a decal reading: PUMP FIST.
Brief Fiber
or Message to Oneself, Date Farmer, New Organic Supermarket Design, and Sustainable Ass. Appears as a man stretches to balance a shot glass on the Metra rail passing over Cicero, as a woman snuggles herself into the seat left, a featureless vanilla just there, an erroneous bark amid the susurration of the lyceum. Just free-form tender. I have tried to avoid smells that don’t make me think about 1996, glass, and electronic music filtered backwards through a mixer, in that order; others come single, but after turn out to be possible kingdoms, faith in a head, and loyal builders for the jacket. My doctor writes “Ice Bitch” down his stethoscope and the other things he uses to read my heart. Bad blood and the shape of my eye as it might come up, tweens hitched at the earphone, and buildings like sounds you can’t hear surrounded you since birth. Some imagined I don’t get. This century wants anything, so why give up bold secretion, the scale of a full mouth, cement beach rewetting itself like tinier revolutions inside a handgun spinning a bullet, asterisk puckers, a mean whisper asking me to be dumb. Have you ever been inside a target?
As a child I knew a girl named Jessica with barrettes naming the days of each week snapped in her pigtails, and she’d shake her head back and forth and show me when she’d worn two days. This is a failing bucket. Even the inanimates fall out. Why I haven’t paid for an assisted haircut in the recent era. Morning so highminded in its susurrations it won’t even listen to my idea for a reality show that features individuals who miss important bill payments. Perhaps I will be able to show my vacation slides in order next time. I always turn out to be such a strange leader. That Chris Isaac song. The year I didn’t want things touching other things. The twisted FM band. Stoke the idiom automatic swimming out from the rock. The jar settles just below the tombstone of my favorite hype man, originally athirst and forgetting of the river, denied by the informer class insisting beyond machineries my maidenhood is simply phonolithic, vomica instars, and more like little drawers with stashes of screws convincing me my bloodmother was invented bolts and hesitations. I will never be any older so I can cut this now.
The death-math-core team headering futbols and consistent with my premonition I could only look at their tessalated jerseys; they want kick anatomy around and I make bread dough rise; they collate the pander into catchnets and I insist that rebellion against spring water, water not off some brow, is indeed sincere, so sincere I facegaurd artificial intelligence to the point we were rushed lye for lacing our jeans and I had to promise I wouldn’t splay you to read you guts. One room inside another room. Hotplate mineral deposits. I need whatever desire there is. Because in time I will have inhibited integrity, the space tangles into erotic, always, like my summer in Los Angeles practicing movement theater to bhagavadgita readings from deep yogi throats and on the weekend we painted houses in an allegory to sex parts. The days flew by like stylized musings and at lunch we danced to ambient crowd noise from radio broadcast baseball games, transcending the commentary, a wedding overlooking the sea where there is no dress, but scarves thrown in air fast enough to perform its function. That thing you did with your mouth, I had to send a postcard to apologize for interrupting normal hotel procedure, promising next time we’d provide audible double-u in stereo and create a vacuum, not split the pillows with an axe, or ask any unborne flora into the space of moving hams.
Another level of the uninitiated. Stealing linens. Of course I will locomotion. A moaning animal is born. Because I don’t want medicine, I treat it by pulling out my book that collects favorite graffiti of French filmmakers without believing in the repetition of my campaign, believing you could be more amorphous about all of this, that it didn’t matter someone’s daughter has also wrapped her naked breasts in this banner. A fish glimmers to death in a sanctum blockbuster and I ready my dominant arm to spout more than blood: cochlea, numerology, and dialectics that continue to draw the pedestrians into a masterless round nothing but a trivia of genitalia shapes, a dog paddling in a circle, unconcern for the child to be born and disappear in America: I pronounce her name Virgina Dare and she had vision like dragging a brushfire. James manages the kitchen. Jim manage the servers. This could be a similar harm. The decision does not come. Ask our apparition if blogging means knocking on cupboards actually in underwear or if the rain problems costume sheets I won’t be able to lie about anymore: the blood from my appendage clearly links us to the file cabinet full of unused city plans I am inch-by-inch trying to push out of the office window, the longer breathmint I would love to dispossess you of.
The middled novel in this trilogy is organized like a furcula and so set before civilization: if my two main characters are an Italian mothersauce and Nina Simone and one believes cereal is sane where the other believes the opposite. The both sit with an accurate hand, holding the Queen of requires-plenty-going-unnoticed, the Jack of moves-my-mouth, the King of inaccurate wearing and the ten of my-name-is-on-that-job. The way dancing can still be very responsible as in the order of a monsoon. Strawberries ripen a plate. You’ve indelible sails. The birthday inside the cake. Science is only good in the light. Ice-cream always screaming. Contrapunting the art of not-what-you-gave-me, of unity machine, of the-parts-of-me-are-at-work, of standing, during a pause in the piloting glut? Gardens can be so complicit.