Hierophany

Every moment has to be important

And I can have one of those moments

Unfloored booze
Electricians munching
On delivery wires

I eat a hunger for art
And fight back
A green tea burp.   Hey

Gesso is only the beginning—

This entry posted by J Rand : 17:17

41

My favorite poets
   Had their own problems—
How reassuring.

42

This is just an act
   Me sitting here stoned and drunk
In the chair.

43

Hey, aren’t the zinnias
   Pretty?
Let’s have another drink.

44

As I watch The War,
   I decide to skip dinner—
The battle of my bulge.

45

Bare nail in wall
   Where my painting hung—
Now I see the sun.

This entry posted by J Rand : 23:19

Night as hard as
The table we sit at.

Once wood the
Table grew old,
Became a table.

Night, pressed,
Becomes morning.

This entry posted by J Rand : 08:36

1
Hello at the margins.
Hello Inuit suntan.
That feels very dense to me, water.
Grilling heat, goon of history.
The ceiling fills with ice
But falls as rain.
Oil is the new old gold; again.

2
My legs ache
With the memory of beer
This time last night.
Altocirrus when I close my eyes.
In October it's still too hot
For a comforter.

3
Man has changed the world.
Russia owns the Arctic,
All the new shipping routes.
I sign up for art
But all I make is war.

This entry posted by J Rand : 08:29

36

Hark! The dog makes the sound
Of someone interested
In my poetry.


37

Getting drunk
To the story of Enron—
Alcohol flows like gas.


38

Untamed land
Just waiting to be explored—
From the five hundreds…


39

Swimming the halls of fortune,
Beset by the winnings
Of the greatest generation.


40

Macadamia nut
Dusted with imperial
Gunpowder.

This entry posted by J Rand : 10:05

31

Flushed Rhine has risen
To welcome our arrival
In the wine-land.


32

Skyline sky,
Skybleached sky.
How many times I will describe it.


33

Coin empire,
You’re running out of coins—
Guess how I paid for you.


34

Sky more blue
Or clouds more white?
What haiku at this height?


35

Heels on a cobblestone street.
Oh, I can’t help
But looking.

This entry posted by J Rand : 09:56

A garbage can related to a steam engine trembles,
or a buzzard of a dolphin writes a love letter
to a dust bunny about a buzzard.
A blithe spirit hovering above the parking lot
starts reminiscing about lost glory, lost glory!—
but a demon for an almost burly food stamp lazily cooks
cheese grits for a paycheck toward a minivan.
The buzzard panics, and a razor blade of the tabloid
earns frequent-flier miles.
Still the hole puncher of the paycheck
teaches a college-educated traffic light how not to blink.
Downtown, downtown.  The psychotic judge slyly borrows money
from the hot-tempered food stamp,
because the cocker spaniel pours
freezing cold water on the wedding dress.  Ruined.
From the bench he yells at the plaintiff,
“Any bowling ball can figure out a financial spider,
but it takes a real razor blade to seek a mating ritual!”  Seriously.
Now and then, the judge adjusts his tripod, borrows more money,
this time from a minivan defined by a bitter bottle of beer.
Soothed by interested, unrated interest rates,
no longer does the fruit cake meditate, nor the pork chop panic;
but a line dancer from the crank case
finds subtle faults with the ocean, throwing her shoes into it.
If a girl scout graduates from the pickup truck,
then some mysterious cargo bay gets stinking drunk.  On gin.
A recliner prays, and the blithe spirit related to some tabloid reporter
bestows great honor upon another senatorial chess board.  Remember.
When you see the revered fighter pilot,
it means that the cashier now flies into a rage;
that the earring buries our moronic deficit;
that a roller coaster of a cowboy shares a shower with a mastodon.
And there is no room for the judge.

This entry posted by J Rand : 07:41