Hierophany

I’m holding two pens,
one in either hand.
One pen is for me,
one is for my muse.
I can’t write left-handed
but the muse can.

When my wife coughs
at midnight,
the heater burns with
orange light.
Tonight.
I lead with my left,
not my right.

This entry posted by J Rand : 20:12

There is a tightness in my head
As if my eyes were chewing gum.

Today I learned that tequila is not afraid to be its own drink.
That is to say, it does not take orders.

Not on the rocks.
Not(e)s of coconut, pepper, and reminiscent moon.

I have not meditated since last month.
There is no Monastery de Lunazul.

The pop-up pourer on this bottle
Was a nice surprise, said my friend, startled.

Now he is busy making apple bread.
Of the rats in the walls, all are dead.

Plants people the inside because it is cold out there.
Who says I can’t accomplish depth?

This entry posted by J Rand : 14:06

I
I want to be respected
When it comes to smoking.
I am not a chimney.
I do not burn coal.
Tobacco leaf, bronzed,
Is strict pleasure.
Not a TV set!


II
Cocaine is OK
For gov’t purposes.
Otherwise, just missiles and snow.
A body.
American Shoe.
Impotence.
This is the age of the stock market —
Born and then risen again!


III
Someone moves behind a screen.
Not only is this not Kansas.
This is sweetheart deals.
BLT’s.
Sundays & NASCAR.
The cars keep making circles
Until the gasoline is gone.
The hybrid of council,
Last in voting,
Wins by ten lengths.
Top speed?
100 mph.


IV
Saakashvili, Saakashvili!
But that’s just a nickname.  Fuzz.


V
Someone is smoking in the bathroom.
Someone is making flapjacks
And dousing them with maple syrup.
The real stuff.
All the honeybees are gone
And the trees are dying of dry humor.


VI
So I hold my pen
Like a baby birthing between my legs.
Maybe now they’ll give me those meds.
The red ones
Stamped with the names
Of good mutual funds.


VII
And then here comes the headache,
The stomach purge.
Regret like a steamship
Crashing th’orizon.
It runs on seaweed
And all of its passengers
Are sick
And ready to sue.


VIII
It was all I could do
To keep from crying.
My megaton novel
Exploded before I did
And all I had left
Were these lines…

This entry posted by J Rand : 09:43

My body is in
perfect balance right now
but I miss all radiators.

We’ll drink together
(said one radiator to another)
and the heating oil inside us
will go up by as much as
thirty-two dollars a barrel.

They both chuckle like wineslaves.
I awake to the sounds of a coup.

This entry posted by J Rand : 09:00

When I died my life became
Nothing but a reel-to-reel
Of all the dreams I’d ever had.
Nightmares, wet ones, lucidity, and flying.
But when I got through with those, my afterlife
Was nothing but the dreams within the dreams.
And now, with that tape flickering
In the empty silence of a classroom,
I’m wishing I’d had at least one dream
Of a dream about a dream.

This entry posted by J Rand : 23:35