From The New Horizon
I’m leaving again . . .
on
the tray of my back’s
shadow, a blackboard in front of my eyes and a chalk
circle
beneath my feet, which is sticky like the number
8 lying down, like a smooth magnet,
like a rice grain that will grow into who knows what.
I will know the endlessness of Epicure’s
crotch, who’s fat and naked, while
around him,
loudly dancing, are blue and yellow poker
cards on which praying mantises land then
jump randomly!
They
joyfully ride around on the backs of cards
as stiff as the Karma would have them!
I don’t know,
maybe I should include the dry cracks in
jackfruit
I was looking for in back of a mirror,
nothing there
but pain from all the small, trivial acts
of my life,
slurping bowl after bowl of insipidness
and softness
but so happily . . .
I carry
very gently
a sloping tray of rain on my back.
A friend named Alpha carries me, one two
three . . . I carry Alpha back,
thin and almost weightless. Because there
is a drumming in my chest, a beating.
While spending an hour looking into the
lens of a hand- cranked movie camera,
I see the world’s horizontal and
vertical axes are only foolish distances.
An inkpot floats over the Capital Letters,
which of course dissolve in ink, but I
still
haven’t written my note.
completely forgetting logarithms, broken curves, 4 table legs, beneath which I clamped my teeth
to a corner, crunching on cubical sunsets like wounds of air or balloons randomly flying.