Chronotope
ta panta rhei
alabaster has a naming
picture, frozen
there is no difference
between sky & stone-to-stone
raw welt, imagined
feet rubbed with leaves
sapphire disco, decision
stiletto still voice
bevel headed learning
time-font consideration
secede close circumcision
recall no end, heaven
lie list lip
cerebrum, cerebellum evince
spark
fast rolling water move
ANATOMY OF A
CAR-CRASH
what is the skeins of/strains of lie
grafted on the table
what is the tiniest something in your eye
all night & into the next day
a searing vestibule
& you are listening
hold it right there taxonomy
there are jumper cables for the erudite
& less engaged of space
a perpetual sniffling
sitting next to the Sikh at the bus-stop
shibuki avenger
crumple my walls
hold a carnival in my wake
one mans jaw drops is anothers
flagrant ember clasp
pry ring finger pray pyre of glass peas
fell from his pocket
& covered the highway stretched
as far as the open mind
rides again a parsnip
a junket river of celery glass
river ribbons
inscribe it song, be bones
like grit true.
The Beautiful, Lost
If there is anything
you are missing
look
under the throw
are dune buggies
are you there
in adjacent angles
in fashion
call me sometime
yes, I am listening
same as it ever was
that burning
is smell & taste
sound hears me
it to become
another, no
there are too many
days
years
months
minutes
seconds
hours & hours
are never there
when you need them.
I am missing something
I never had
rabbits
book-ends or
maroon is found
to be lost
in Dutch Guiana
in Suriname
in wilderness
I am not, anywhere is.
The Boy Who
Stood There
burn the deck
the muse
obtuse
is not
quiet
& behead quiescent
the single
noose
bedeck
On Surrealism and Poetry
Language in its purest sense is a flowering from the deep. If we are able to facilitate journeys to these depths and return bearing flowers, they can take many forms of experience, of memory, of emotion. In this way the writing of poetry can become voices- not monoglossia but heteroglossia, polyglossia – speaking of and from a collective. The individual, the ‘I’, disappears and poetry is not created from ego but the id. In this way, we overturn the linear. We collide with established boundaries. We speak in tongues. We feel from the deep unconscious. We can alter both time and space this way. We are both inducing trance in ourselves and anyone else. We conduct mysteries. We can bring in frequency and vibration. We can make music never heard before.
Surrealism’s true roots are in disruption of established paradigms. In subversion and resistance. In anti-colonialism. In anti-imperialism. It embraced the deep unconscious, without limits on the imagination. My allegiance with that early spirit of the Black Surrealists is what continues to bring forth flowers from the deep, that disrupt and do not give up their perfume too easily.
