Cash for Junk

The pets are with the vanilla company.

Every sentence implies dissent.

A grain is the smallest particle of madness.

In Fayetteville they have a lavish toilet.

I am standing on the grave of the Kardashians.

There are prizes but no achievement.

In this country the ideas of space and time are plastic.

The toad who puffed himself to the size of a cow.

The crepuscule comes like a distillation.

Analogies are demons.

They have perpetuated inequality and discrimination.

In the city there is solitude.

Puddles and rooftops.

The variable distance between sentences.

I have tried it many other ways.

This one feels right.

A kaleidoscope of shrapnel, exterminations.

The senator from Kentucky fired at me and missed.

I fucked his mistress.

An intern made up of contiguous states.

Does this belong to somebody?

A girl cigarettes behind the library.

Black and bronze stars.

Random as weather.

Whoever invented it, it is ours now.

When we interpenetrate, we are liquid birds.

Are the names of God his attributes?

Or are we kidding ourselves?

The Snow, Man

One must have a mind of Hitler

And been alone a long time

Not to hear one’s own flatulence in the wind;

To behold the junipers shagged with vice

In the distant glitter like January Jones

And not to scoff at one’s so-called love life;

And be crusted with crap, not to see

Any hilarity in the life of a squirrel,

In the lives of a few squirrels,

Which is the life of the mind

Full of the same souvenirs

Buried and reburied in the same bar,

For the ditherer, who dithers in the snow,

And, blotto himself, beholds

Nut that is not there and the nut that is.

Poem Written in a Late Style

The sun ignites the colors of the city.
The nothing of today will not be filled.

Spaniels spit metaphysics at the press,

And the blackberries are furry with mold.

A dusty industrial street, small pink flowers,

Uselessness in this utopia of use,

Planted here for that purpose years ago,

Something for your pleasure, to devour you.

The seasons come to seem a repetition

Of flowers and muck.  Listening to the birds

You are deaf to the pink and white trees

And by the time you notice them, is it still spring?

The cooler arguments linger like oblong clouds.

The intensity of the riddle sends your dreams

In another direction.  This building wears a triangle hat

And that one is a stack of turquoise blocks.

As the day melts into its opposite,

Their solid, dark facades are fringed with light.

The light is purer now in the darkness.

And the darkness is that which has no name.

Notebooks stored up with secret images,

An elegance of truths, plural and humane,

These are the pages you live to create,

And when you get it right, no longer belong to you.

After Party

We are all gathered around the point of impact

Seated by the fire of old logs and old tires,

Dried-out flowers, floss and scutellum,

A bowl full of night by our side.

Some started drinking from the middle

Of the bottle, others went looking for lightwood

Just in case we lose ourselves in the sky.

We struggled even to form a bucket brigade

Of emotions, let alone ponder flight.

Better if not examined too closely,

The evening takes on the sheen of weight.

All of our motions fill the containers

Stacked along the circle of companions

Of circumstance, coming and going, unweld,

Accidents maturated in dumb tumult.

Tomorrow, we’ll nomad our way

Out of this wilderness, after it falls.

The White Dress

A bundle of light walking in a light rain,

An elemental mode of freedom

Where the simple objects are the most true,

People, green trees, and fresh water,
If your silk touches me, I am coming.

You talk with me late into the night,

I drink the chamomile on your breath

And the vanilla of your neck and breasts.

You are something soft with freckles

Where my mind roves under your bodice.

I am blowing your pinks when dawn breaks

And the curves and curls of your being

Kiss the lips of the day.  My summer, my snow,

The most secret of desires changes with you,

So walk with me now into the light.

When Lilacs Last in the Brickyard

Walking through the door a slow scarf wrapped
Around the throat of midday
The flames scorched the bride of the city
And muted the desire of tracks in transit
The last time these cigarettes were smoked
It was in the cotton fields by the stadium
Where the children of our new tribe choose
The skillful actions of sex changing
Patterns of movement above ground
The outskirts up in the air like a tent
Or a reversible umbrella of silk
Anything to keep the muscles from slack
The forms repeat themselves hand in hand
Like the shape of cold in the mind of cold
The ducks keep their bottoms warm in the pond
And the pigeons are wheezing at the sill
When the phone rings the bird ranchers are outside
With a warrant while the dust from their duds
Settles on the porch in the sunshine
Who prosecutes the molesters of lines, of flack,
Angelic in their justice not a serious condition
Just hand spasms and babbling
As the palm trees stir their spiked fronds
We move through a world where rocks move alone
That guy playing the fiddle is blind

Ames Hodges
& Mike Taormina

The Queen of Colors

If we could live inside the head of a girl

Andromache ravens pearls

Gravity wells.  Alpha.  Sunless noon.  The absolute.

Brambles cover the house after her spindle.

We are dormant under the sea.

Wine-dark lips.  You are something moist with barbs.

Are you wearing the spermicidal dress?

If you come back later I will drink you.

Gangrene plumbs the coal mine of the soul

When the mind descends under her bodice.

The logic puzzles kept there for our senses

Accumulate like spores in the darkness.

She walks with me now away from the sun

To be my bottle of night, my bruised thighs.

She is exquisite without eyes!

Chocolate ribbons of coal.  Scorched bride.

“Come away burnt sugar into the forest”

Where our bodies are mysteries to the vulgar,

Stacked like bricks, the bricks of an oven,

Not keeping track of the atrocities,

The smoke-filled lungs of a smoker,

A spot in the sheets where the moon drops,

A tarred pelican on the gulf coast,

As night revolves on the axle of night.