UNVEIL, UNSTUCK, UN-STRUCK SOUND

In love with the vocal on a mix tape from 1989: You’re here with me, but soon you will be gone…Desperate for concrete rhythm, we grabbed the bucket. And you. In love with modern moonlight. Compassion is better than a diamond—it’s a vaster rainbow jewel. Take the pain, but the joy, too, it’s all light. It’s all right. Surrender to compression of compassion—expaaansea!

This degree: it’s just something for the animals to chew on.

Infants talk to animals differently than they talk to people. Noise is. All the drugs in my heart. Diverse heart. Not just the sentimental clinging, but expanse of azure midnight, the dissolving moonlight, the cutting black trees. And this: a mouth in pillow forever screaming, and this: stupid white wine afternoons. Diverse heart. Radiant.

            Murder pissing on the monitor, and Juniper wearing long sleeves in summer. The babies—that is, you, me, and the earth under our foundations, basements carved into earth, our earth, and all slugs and flying things, and my baby and my fishy 17-year-old cat, are each spirals, each as sacred as a conch, a spark spit out in golden time, formed by space-time, but living as a full spiral within star-spiral-la all the same.

And there is that time of day, when the sun hits the base of the fractured mirror lamp just right, and little diamonds fleck on the living room walls, ceiling. My baby and I watch the manifestation. And later, it vanishes. We don’t know, but then we look up. The way the sun hits these walls with changing character through the spiraling seasons.

Come see the frog-lit human experience… Change of weather brings all the former lives crashing down around us like empty boxes from the last move.

When I was four, in 1982, my mother fell in love with the book William Blake’s Inn, by Nancy Willard, but we couldn’t afford it, so she borrowed it from the library, transcribed it, and read it to us.

Who cares about the Ramones, what about the river of hawks?

Sex is like voice. Is it clear. Is it unblocked, unstuck. Un-struck sound. Singular and universe. (Potential to blue.)

I dream-creep through hidden floors in rich people’s homes seeking secret stairs to the beach. At shows. Some people want to look like line drawings. Aw, there’s garbage everywhere!