delusiveness in consideration of my hands and knees
as
i was telling you i’m really into letting my heart be it’s
own brick. i model it after the cities in my late calm rational ‘nothing
green’ period. i adore the clay out of which i sculpt and spit flying
saucers. i fly myself sometimes.
i want to hide sticks in my wings. i
want to stuff words in your mind and leave them ticking. i’ll cause
you to say i had a little thought-action going there for a second. still
i absent myself from my own landscapes as
i fantasize you couldn ’t afford me.
barbers should begin at age 6
and retire by age 12. after that ears become a different feature. probes
seeking the secret. after that haircuts decline
into symptoms.
on paper my life will make it to the play-offs. i’m
not like other people who drift from room to little white room noticing
only the pattern
on the floor. my ears are still perky in the morning most mornings. i’m
a lasting fort. my gigging and digging show nature to be the fool. maybe
this summer we ’ll trim your lemons. i’m good for it.
let me ask
you this do you know what i’m saying? i’ll tell you:
thorns are not as bad as bullets. pens are oars demurely dipping misread
by those on the surface. yes i’m staying awake for the laundry but
it ’s not easy to write in a boat.
two men approach me wearing dust-orange
desert garb. i clash in my dogwood design. look out luckies i yell i’m
switching from berries to fruit. i palm my orange tomato and recite my
colorist poems. they offer to form
a randolph-level cult and clutter it with luminous fall leaves. our motto
will be we who rush outside to chant. sometimes dreams don’t mean
a thing.
he who humbles himself will be exalted / so would the
last one out please lock up. these kinds of signs rise in me but i can
never sell
them. apparently
there’s a fine line between humbleness and humiliation. are you young
and strong yet bitten through by lack / visualize your thoughts and reach
for them like peaches. this is how i feel like putting it but few feel
like getting it.
i was born in a town that needed sandbags but couldn’t
find the dollars. instead the bell rang and we lined up to stack our
pennies. i miss those
spring floods and the liquid earth. this i learned the moon has lights
that tell the oil how to float and rainbow.
hey at this point i’d
settle for tough love.
do you have trees that green? water that yellows?
do the colors in your mind last? what do you see when you listen? what
does it matter if paper
covers rock? why introduce dynamite? how much space can you erase? stop
saying time flies.
at night i favor fastening myself to the sea wall
lest i bother you. this was in my blue period where i learned salt won’t
alleviate hunger.
given enough shine any response appears brilliant.
i put the walking powder in my pocket and i’m still going. there’s
a fire up the south fork drawing people who want to say they’ve seen
things.
doors are figments of the final one. once this donut sinks
i’ll
be annoyed as it reminds me of well a lot of things. i fell outside but
now
inside i ’m
less fallen.
Birds and fish
motilate through Randy Prunty’s poems. Examples can be found in
upcoming chapbooks by Lavender Ink and Thirdness. Sort of like a physical
language
artist, he is part of the atlanta poets group.
