Monday, October 24, 2016

from Tattered Scrolls & Postulates/Joseph Milford


under hypnosis he still spoke in tongues. there was no way to diagnose the demons of hillbillies.
campfires surrounded by melungeons. partus sequitur ventrem. can’t assimilate in these parts.
dismantled our drag cars to build a Trojan keg to get into their city hall. Judge Laocoon wailed.
we traveled cross-country to Yoknapatawpha County. nothing was the same as we had left it.
homespun downhome plainspoken quips. i still don’t ever believe Papa Joe about the mermaids.
the thought of retribution painfully slow like a centipede tedious across worn carpet. yearning.
i thought it was turtle shell turned out to be skull. watched the sunset and mushrooms sprouted.
could have been a rocket scientist but he became the best taxidermist Lanett, Alabama ever had.
greatest epic singer born from family that never understood a word of my song. neo-Hart Crane.
they have only found ten haplocantosaurus. they call this rare. you laughed and call it precious.


what do you call 1,000 lines set upon to finish the hunt of a white stag? what better quest word?
Ursula K. Le Guin did this to me.  Ursula of the pond. Ursula of the forest. Ursula you little bear.
all i have learned of the constellations helps me not in making better love to this Ishtar Kali-ma.
what do you call 1,000 times towards the narthex of the temple with offerings too simple to fruit?
i floated and bounced and plagiarized and forged and laundered and embezelled all your checks.
flannel brings you musing on some Scotch origin you can’t remember you drunken glad wench.
always getting stabbed at night by pens you fall asleep with and bruised by the notebooks too.
i love you not enough to follow you to hell. said i would have to shepherd the goats to Elysium.
always thought my spirit-animal was a koala. nursing a cold with terrible claws. you disagreed.
1,000 lines called you like a murder of crows from the trees shredding clouds like cotton candy.

running about this small town with easel in your hand never knowing where to plant it. where
to start. camera-men running behind you and your easel constantly sending the Cloud your me-
anderings. drones buzzing behind the camera-men chasing them chasing you filming the filmers
while other painter paints all all of it with Sigmar Polke directing the lighting & emulsion fluids.
rather die on a bone in a catfish joint than for jihad. die a poor painter. not to ever live forever.
rather, he was eaten by a giant catfish while diving to set explosive charges for West Point Dam.
Hiawatha, not Jonah. “this place is like a reliquary of discretions past”. in the pork belly of it all.
Hiawatha, never Noah. she is the outrigger and she guides you through dire tempest, your Hina.
diving down into the dark with the knife between my teeth hoping they are painting and filming.
thought he was an albino but Cricket came home covered in chalk of a thousand bad classes.


in terms of scrolls, postulates, portents, torrents, postscripts, archivings—this body was vessel.
a direct correspondence between technology, blood sugar, alchohol, and mysticism required.
i took my self apart in terms of ships to make a horse full of seed to enter the city of her awesome.
then we were attacked by one-eyed napalm-clad things of fire and alchemical purity we loved.
then we had to go home & drive tractors over continents of the dead and the memories of them.
horror is not going to war & horror is coming home from war & horror is winning a fucking war.
Jim Morrison said that violence isn’t evil. that the infatuation with violence is evil. cornshuck it.
war is going to glamour. war’s suckling a celebrity. war is a nuclear bomb neglige. war hungry.
every time a building burned down or was excavated or was demolitioned i saw fathers’ faces.
the best we can do is make better okra from the ashes and better molasses. we learn to glisten.


the balconies and verandas now all covered in the ivy from the spilt vendettas. suitors can climb.
truckerslang behind the greasy spoon overheard regardless of motorcycles revving incessantly.
somewhere in Karnak in a parallel dimension beyond the great paradox i have responsibilities.
no one here ever lets truth get in the way of a good boring. no one wants tour of your tit-town.
we now had the killswitch in wristwatches capable of incinerating our childhood imaginations.
dream of having a hot air balloon which could have flown over the ancient monuments thriving.
i accidentally victoriously remember part of gestation inside my mother when i was a seahorse.
what is read what is channeled what’s written what’s sampled what’s indoctrinated what’s lyric?
was this one place in Carrollton, Georgia where i devoured best carne asada of my life. seriously.
i woke with a shovel in the bed. wife texting. daughters with telescopes. time to kill strangely.

No comments:

Post a Comment