Parlance of Streams I

“Don’t you goof / and be a stupid goose, son. / The day is too young / to be sleeping through.”

-Parser

At the core of the heart is the heart of the heart, and it blinks like an eye but can’t see—only feel. At the cleft of each lip is the lip of the lip, and the tip of each lip of each lip is a fire on a summit. What of the body is art?

[P.] And so yeah with that the rest tumbles into order, more or less:

What am I up to?

“The Heart is a Sledge to be hammered; Life is a hammer many sledges dread.”

What am I aiming for?

“Shoot for the moon. I love ya to the moon and back.”

What is my song about?

“My song is about the journey of night. My song is a Rock of Ages. Song of my soul..”

What of night?

“What of night is not of day; what of day nor of night.”

Excepting…?

“Excepting all they persist around. The night and the day are opposition incarnate: animated: magnified.”

How do you keep singing on your soul’s song?

“Hoes do the bee fly for so long all day?”

Hmm.

“How is the day still the day with the moon in the sky? Or the night with the day in the moon’s face? How do we know anything for sure? Impossible to know for sure. I’d rather think of all the moment’s rivulets and follow aft that either way; the stream is many places. I’d rather be the duck that floats. I’d rather be the duck on the day it slows in its suspension. Suspended on the waves. Travel downstream the stream which speaks in buoyant little burbles.. Travel on down and downstream there winds up upstream from the egress into the egress of the egress.”

Oh, yes. The heart is always wont of the other side—other life: other grass greener.

“So you see, buddy. I’m not really in to be a phoenix for the Plans Bs or Cs. / I just want to chariot beacons and crash disastrously in on myself: burn whole and be born anew from a bed of black ash. This is the hero’s dilemma. This is the stem of cherr-y maraschino tied in a perfect pretzel know by the mouth of a perfectly lit angel bop prose section incarnate beautiful a moment passes over fore she’s gone and life just goes along on. / Think I could be a sail on a light boat. / Below vessel, / I move in the updraft of a curtail to a dream. / All of my worst fears taking over: being the main character of a perfectly cast film / in which all of the actors are expert / but me, / except I’m not aware it’s an act until the last scene ./ when the curtains drop / and it’s just me on an empty stage.”

…

“Bless the open sea to tempt the strongest arms”

Alas.

“Bless the night on which the heart upon the the sea embarks it.”

Ooh-la.

“Bless your heavy-handed sentiment; I’m in no need of sorrow. Tie balloons to mine and I will follow through to open sky.”

.x.

The first one is meant to really hit you. Let the bust lip burst: slow-motion sigh of shock from the blockheaded me taking blows for no reason, sitting down on the porch for a cigarette.

Maybe commercial humanity’s truest disaster was the purchase of a soul for a lifestyle. That’s a bit judgmental, dogmatic, but I could see how its vaguenesses lend to the “profoundish air” about them.

Lee Rick's

Lee Rick’s O N E

I am having quite the time / getting fucked over slight- / ly faster than I’d like. / C’est la vie; such is life— / living current, feeling light, / because everything’s all right, / even, /

Even when I’m—even when I’m—when I’m poisoned from my chest /

down /

down to my toes, / I just lie down and / rise like a rose arose at dawn / when it goes—when it goes. / Then I’m glad / to feel bet- / ter again, again / I’m fucking glad. / I’m fucking glad.

Seven seven seven days in the week / in the week / but I keep my eyes focused / only in a sing— / single day, / single day, / single day. /

T W O

One sitting. / One sitting and I wrote. / Just enough / to be loved. / to be drugged. / by the smoke / that I breathe / in the night / like a sea of a high / so my sight / isn’t human / in the least / it’s the truth / it’s a light / it’s alight. / It’s a seam / that I tear / just to feel healed. /

Holy God, / is it living— / what I speak? / What I write? / Is it me— / when I read / what I write, / because I know / myself? / God, / do you read / what you write? / as I read myself / right now? / Editing the / parts that you hate / just to realize—wait, / this is me, what / I mean, what my / heart yearned to say—it should stay where / it is, where I / wrote it, at / least I will let / let / it until / I decide to erase what I wrote / on the fly, / because I can / and it means / what it means / to myself at least. /

THREEE

Don’t you believe I can’t believe? / Is it the forest for the trees? / Was I the snow upon the peak? / Or the edge of your eyes? / Was I the first or the last / to have seen what was seen? / Every last shade of green? / Every blue of the sky? /

Lo ner / Last to be so ber / So lo / Cup but it’s over: / last drop in me. / A live with a life / Drawing broad around me. / Not alone, not right now alone. / Never alone, never ever alone alone. /

Only reading, you share / your sight. /

FoooooUR

Damn, Dad. Gave me my eyes, too. So I love to see him. All I can.

Damn, God. Gave me my eyelids. So I try to dream. He could be.

And dream of what it means to dream, and see of what is here in me what’s here to see.

And see to it I cannot fall, when I’ve just slipped.

And see how I’m an elephant, that way.

And see.

And see.

And see.

I spread a lily pedal ley on my chest.

And lay a slate the sun baked—in the long grass.

So I could see the pale its plant cells left, where they had felt.

I smoke ssssssss.

Fiv

Kick. Waddle. Trip. Stop.

Buck-. Et my. Foot. Caught.

Comes. Off like. But-. Ter.

Go. Stretching. Mid-. Walk.

S I XXX

[… porque, mi infinito no es el único]

If I’m feeling fucking great. There’s a smile on my face.

S E U E N

 …

I

What would Will do? Where my body casts a shadow, there are tadpoles. Glisten-ing amid-swim. In a paint bucket. Cautioning my need to focus on any one. And see them all whirling in vortexes. Season of Locusts, (I remember) it was cicadas I heard. Not in a voice or a word. But the songs of their tymbals, reaching on out just to vibrate—to make a sound.

Oh and my tiny traumas of blisters. my skin a sun cake. my feet some hot coals on pool cement. Too stupid and little to understand pain.

Oh and my honors: to be humbled by the sweat-bee; mumbled by a stranger’s mouth and. Spat back out. Like a Russian bomb spit whistle. Like an exotic overly animal bird. Like a brick across the endless trenches of cement between brick and brick. Like a ration of water-for-flowers.

Oh and my offs and my onwards. Half-asleep still, talking from the window of a dream with. My eyes slack and open. So in every center, … frozen water freezes water clinging. So at the periphery. It’s good to look if just to see a. Line of words when it’s you or it’s me. I always got my best work from the edges of my life, at least.

:^)

Hey Now, Hey Now

May be any day now willing

we clip our wings on the clouds again. Woah love-a-day-break, taken aback by the brush of suns in the rainslight, lines of hallucinated angels’ haloes showers seem to pass through. If it were a clear thing or there were a right way, I would. put my heart in my actions and not get. cheaply discounted to sleeping again—but partly myself in dreams and do dream. I had this one dream where I’m free in every muscle’s flexure and alone I scream and alone I cry and alone I laugh and alone I sing and from nowhere all these loved ones I’ve never met before yet know so well somehow come walking many-layered from the coldness of the dim empty street-like-an-echo-chamber with blizzard-frosted smiles and embraces like gifts, like being near me makes. them warm and. they’re glad. I had this one dream where I speak with a spork in the abstract trash bag you held up, whose convex. side bore and adorably minimal face, and it wept with my eyes, in earnest confiding about the pain of being. trash in a trash bag. I had either this dream or this dreamlike memory, maybe the first one, where I’m crawling onto the carpet of my mother’s room. and it’s a full-moon wind on a dark slate of blue from out the window that drags. cigarette smoke from the place where her face is a refrain of blankness and eyes red, looking through the television from another world. I have this dream where I’m

Satellites' Volts' Loves' Love's Love

Distant addict-ditz in spin about / himself or else the planet itself, /

sure the way an orbit’s bound / something good is coming round. /

Test-Drivesque

Woe are some. Chewing gum. Temples never trying.

Some good thing. In my past. Always gets me smiling like an idiot.

Don’t forget to forgive. Yourself when you’ve shelved. That love around your sight. of your own self.

Penny-colored sunlight late. on the dunes and waves.

And my burnished face.

My (as in this hand’s pen’s person’s) life a Picasso piece kaleidoscoped, rotoscoped, enveloped in the vellum them cherubim flew to deliver to you (to you). All of my sickness. All of my heart. Kept in the longhand they handed to you.

How, how, how? How’re you a halo in secret and—caged in some Polaroids’ prism—in prison? How? How is it a cold sequence? melting by the sun a run of runaways on the concrete. And any light the color of any flame. Kept in a clear vase where’s my water. where’s my flowers’ drink.

Have you… if ever, have you? blinked, or missed the mark, or lost that breeze that grazed the fray? Fucked up the last line? Questioned the speech that you speak? forgotten your reasons? Listen.

You’re when the show’s on. Show you a sign of things. Put your heart in their meanings for you (for you). Hasten. if it’s how you have to balance things. If it’s what it takes to breathe, then. run and believe’n me my Sarah Tonin. I’m in the leaves blown a park and away. empathizing with the sunlight on the back of your neck. and the way that it transfers its warmth unto you. with the wind a blear overhead, underneath,. asking us for signs of things,. to put our hearts in their meanings for us (for us) at least. and a gum stick in a split half. at last and glad.

Then, if our heads work, we’ll go for night swims. Then, if our hands work, we’ll get some words in. Then, if the time’s right, it’ll be daylight. Then, if there’s time left, I will say “all right.” and fall back asleep like a low tide at midnight. all right.

Cool winter mint-breath-whisp-ring darling-sweet nothings nothing learns from nothing gets understood about standing numb-faced in the street nineteen-degrees Fahrenheit my nose red. Rudolph the reject whose nose shone. sunburnt. in April on the beach, bleached by high beams. my friend and the West a bit upshore where. there is the plumb line and aflame wood an a 24 of Budweis. Not the alternative to any other shoreline.

My life. golden-tinted amber-jellied sunset-dampened stories fixing to happen. I yet a scriber. of what is of me.

All the Skittles in The Funk Down Mainstreet

Day bit Duke in the eyes’ other

when he

lay lit luke in some hot water.

Better on off-switches pill-brained.

Better is softer than Saturn in daylight.

Coda for the coal aftertaste of too much Coca-Cola.

When I birdwatch from the balcony

a warbling in the trees out there by those apartments,

getting wintered.

Want what a bird has in its fluency on the air.

Want what a soul needs.

Want what a soul has but can’t see.

That is some trick of the heart, I swear it I swear it I swear it.

God bred a race of bright things out of flint sparks with two sharp stones and a little bit of time.

And lo or what ever the fuck have you really been worn by the Big Business to delirium and stretched for lack of wanting to tear.

Low has the low has the bar gone. Oh no. What if it’s what your heart’s said?