artaud technique in orwellian thematics, stylized with considerations of miller

sweat with words, dance with verbs and sit on the elegant contours
of thought, because what we spoke was not some ancient gybed rot
but gypsy coronation launched by violin sorrows and filled with
elegant tomorrows.

left our guile at the roadside
when the apocalypse kept coming
and left our smiles in the pictures
where we faked our styles with
understanding guile.

AND THEY SPOKE WITH A SHIVER,
MY ARROWS FULL IN THE QUIVER
SAID LISTEN CLOSE, LISTEN CLOSE,
and they all surrendered.

tomorrow is a process
of what we keep inside
today is the unraveling
of the symbols of outside
and when you caught the bus
you felt with your black suitcase
what you knew to be inside,
a pack of gum and some water pistols,
a balloon inflated and tied to thistles
interlacing with the veins of your left wrist.

You bought out their process
with your thoughts of wine
and drank deeply from the signs
the sirens left upon the rigging line
and built a blooming staircase with
nothing but a few windy leaves left
upon the sky.

Angelic dispensation of certain articulations,
LET NO ONE DEFINE THE "I"

love,
you wrapped your blooming peonies
around my wooden wrist like a heat
of breath upon my skin, and left
me standing here with flowers from
the articulate earth.

I always come back.

You can count on that.

Deliver up an interruption with wild eyes
smoking like summer suns, and pick up a book
evolving with the flower children smoking
in forested glenns and fresh meadows,
deliver up a diversion with dregs of
writing, write me up inside your library,
write them up and call them contrary to that
which you know is a fact.