Tuesday, June 4, 2013


Being befuddled, dust and tumble
Down the road to Valencia

Half a radiance, like a roosted angel,
My pants, my pigeons, my puzzlement!

It is like gazing at a dwarf sun
Beneath the world of ideas

Where I live when I am not here
Checkmated with malice, with intent.

A voice without permanence
In the faculties of light

Naked pinks and naked whites,
That diabolical book of pleasure

Boisterous hypothesis,
A breakfast without signifiers, posed.

Time is a deviant of perfection
And the frail mind slapped

By memory, by everything that is not,
Building a voice without energy,

A permanence without substance,
Past remembrance, a sea of rust,

Always having re-begun.  Bitter
Tabula.  Spitting out.  Petunia.

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