Hierophany

Index card.
Assyrian, Joseph the.

I guess that’s what’s meant
about someone from Syria,
or what used to be Syria.

My yellow more pure is
than commercial cake.
Summer watermelon,
two kinds of seeds of.
One will grow in me,
the other will grow
to my new life become.

Activists have already
to court taken this poem
so don’t worry so.

I am waking to wake up,
museum touring the.
Popping pills,
touching paint my
fingers bare with.

Still wet it’s hoping.

This entry posted by J Rand : 22:21

I gave all
of the Red Sox arm bands
20 good workouts
before I decided:
the Chinese equivalent is better.

Advertise an earthquake.
No one buys pain
except to buy it off.
Scramble dollars
to shoot
parity down.
Only organ transplant helicopters
also die in the process.

Eider down,
sea level up.

The weight you've lost
will grow back
like a hungry neutron
when the Inuit
wear designer sunglasses
made out of vegetarian
latté sushi
drive-by media.

I gave the Red Sox
armbands
20 good workouts
before I decided:

The Chinese equivalent is better.

This entry posted by J Rand : 10:59

Every summer I learn the constellations
              over again.         Like tonight
  I thought      hey I’ll camp out, let
                                     the white light of stars
    freckle my forehead.  And under the mesh
of my tent I think all sorts of things as I ogle
those way-out stars.  Where I’ve been lately,
and how I came to be here now.  This is
     the Dominican Republic, this New Amsterdam.  This
           night a dark little life
           I live all alone.      In a tiny little hut made for
Tiny Tim or a wonk or someone who’s eaten
         way too much chocolate and has no business
    with a notary license.
                                          Yes I do swear
   to tell the whole solomon truth    and
 bull-riding and fireflies and glowing juice
       and where we’re at in America these days.
And this guy with a shirt on says Real Environmentalists
     Don’t Eat Meat but I can’t quit meat.
                What is it that I’m good at, and
   what am I not good at.       What’s smoky, what’s fruity,
what do I like and what don’t I like.    What counts as a
         long session of anything and have I ever had one.  How long
have I walked compared to others and how much
   money have I made and when can I quit this big quiet disgrace
that I wipe from my face every day, trying to stay clean,
              thanking God, thanking Sirius and then Betelgeuse.   Seeing
    that I’ve got a short night and a long drive.  Unfortunately with these gas prices
              a drive.  But until then, the night, the music, the nasally laugh
  from a site over yonder.  And the crystalline light of requiems still
               burning like rain forests in the tropics.  Oh, who doesn’t
         want one more life?

This entry posted by J Rand : 17:32