An Inconsolable Sadness
There, I found the world
when I touched that tree in the
courtyard of St. Ann’s,
You can break them in,
where he sat in the rain,
staring at the ground.
I called it, “a Vast Sadness”,
but I was wrong
as I look down,
and you point your gun
there
as I climbed the bow of the ship
made of concrete
Surrounded by sea,
surrounded by trees.
I wrapped my arms around the trunk
and I almost cried.
I always almost
cry.
Always, almost,
albeit…
“…and live thru
space’s loneliness”
he told me as I was helpless,
elbows slightly bent at
hills in my mind,
mes bras qui
continuaient
loin, loin,
dans l’estomac de l’éternité
Language is meaningless,
Space is Loneliness,
says Elliott.
There is no work left here,
only jobs
in the middle of the courtyard.
Dishwasher with experience.
Trak Mesa sprawl
Low rolling hills in
my mind.
VALIS,
valor,
candid splendor.
God atop
infinite circumference,
stop
drop
and roll,
look at the Spaceship
belly near the crest of the
sky, look
up at how it fragments,
burnt-orange,
look at the moss on the rocks,
regarde mes yeux,
regarde mes ailes invisibles,
Touch the soles
of my shoes.
Would you like
to work with children?
Polish the image that you
have of me.
Look up at the cracked horizon
of the Sno-Globe.
Helicopter
multiplied.
Look at the tree
over which my soul extends,
over which my almost-tears
slowly almost-fall and
hold the position of mast
erect in the rain and mist
rest on leaves.
Watch it
(regarde les cicatrices
en dessous de mes pieds)
seep red
(burnt-orange)
and I tell myself,
“A better name for this would be
‘An Inconsolable Sadness’”
Sadness is a radical
quantity,
says Elliott
Booze fuels.
Sadness is beautiful.
Sibylle spoke to me
in my Dream Journal,
younger, American,
in some kind of nature preserve
We went against the grain
under that bridge
in the Restricted Area
where I cut her up and
made her into something
I wanted her to be.
Dead moth
beauty on the floor of
the garage,
this has been said before,
rhythms pounded onto sand
and log
with found slippers.
Flame under the light bulb
(and the moon is a mirror)
plastic stalk beginning to grow
in the smoke,
the “humito” of genius
that never sleeps.
Sibylle inhales,
I stay up all night
to avoid her.
I fucked you at the
Event Horizon
of the Universe.
Always judge a whore
by its cover.
“Ne change jamais un poème,
révision no. 6”
will be the name on the cover,
which I judge,
rightly.
I will forever
live inside the
Stomach of My
Own Construct
of Misogyny and
Self-Deprecation
until I fuck my
mother and
show my father
the appreciation he
deserves.
Until I give him
something Phallic,
like a cigar or
an unwavering rod
of light.
Concrete mast
in the middle of
the courtyard.
