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a mash-up with Emerson, Hejinian and da Vinci
Today's purple hedges part their hairs on the side.
Today's little bit can't stop smiling, except about the eyes.
My observer, my personal psychotic
in stretched blue sweater and tight jeans
resembles you, dear, in his feel for gravity,
that sway about the memorial fountain,
catching spray off the top statue's sternest bucket.
Destiny is an excuse for existence. And this poem
is an excuse to pause on my way to work.
The crowd at my hip, the grass at my heels.
Each person is an experience for others—whence vomiting.
Whence gravel & stone. Whence colic. Each person is concrete
as in the ground—as in the gazes I've met,
her's and her's and her's again, are meeting mine.So open, I note how different a look desire's is,
where eyes narrow to concentrate light
on spittle and ankle, on yours and mine.
Every metamorphosis is a glance embodied,
a history of time regained by chance.
At the fountain two figures talk for good
in a frieze of selfless solitude, of secret.How sentimental to record an object
in terms of dreams and other visual experiments.
Move the object, move the sense. The world,
wanting to be deceived, hands us looted images we tie
with great delicacy to this city, its perpetual creation
ex-memoriam. Below us, two fast trains
rattle at their nearness, pulled nearlyoff track by each other. How sentimental. How one's angle
meets one's resistance.
One is descending, propelled, and one is reflex.
There is no accurate adjustment between spirit and organ.
The individual is always dying into form.
And Nature, a history of such things,
is a discipline of the understanding. Whence the tail's expansion in the automated courtship of birds. And personality,
circling. Feeling for its dorm.
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