Ekleksographia: Wave 4.1.c: "At the Atchafalaya's Edge"

impression of a cat
(after mina loy)

if i ask you in my phantasy will you . . .? will we . . . couple in the bedridden monopoly of a moment . . .multitudes upon multitudes of moments? i could unbutton the buttons of your button–down buddha–pants—you could unclasp my victoria's secret promo inkpen. we might give birth to a butterfly / with the daily news printed in blood on its wings. we should definitely let the cat out. "have we made reality satisfactory yet?" you ask, your breath hot on my my tongue in your navel–fuzz. i implore your lenten rituals. only fish on fridayz you say, the white of your ass bright as a midsummer moon, a line of tongue finding its way down . . . then the phone rings. someone in san diego has something to sell or your mama's fixin' supper next sunday at four. imagine if her cat got out—all over the neighborhood howlin'. the noise makes you crazy so you wander away & when you come back you say you found jesus sittin' in a neon café with naked chicks and drag queens serving hot–green tea. jesus held a smokin' bowl and he was wearin' blue jeans you said, he said, all the virgin eyes in the world are made of glass, then mary showed up in the cheese toast like magic. I say enough of your male projection so you zip up cause you always take it wrong and i am saying mother goose sleeping beauty rapunzel, rapunzel, let down . . . when suddenly from the black bowels of midnight—voices . . . this is going somewhere, you think. "to hell!" you hear your mama, the jealous storehouse of the candle ends / that lit your adolescent learning say, and ain't it the truth, mothers read our minds, pulling doorbells to remind / those that are snug / arriving in super–ego suits when they fly in our dreams, landing smack in the face of our tongues hanging, a how–to on raising good christian girls tucked under an arm, one finger wagging, "i thought i'd lecture today," you hear yourself say, "on 'the poet and daydreaming.'"

friskies

trapped in a dark net. bloodsuckers sound in the carpet & cornflakes. we carry on
contemplating the mysteries of malfunction while he, he, like a hero on torchwood
crashes the door / crowbar fisted / beats out the kinks. the clink of an idea on this tick–tick
of tape treads / threads set for replay / wirings splayed in a display of networks and neural
bungie cord. pungent stews brew on electric stoves in an eclectic moment of garlic &
headlamps, corona & cable modems, amethyst & costa rican coffee served by puertorican
sorceresses in glasses cut out for gin. cats on creak crouch & grin from couches grunge,
tatters of our feet stuck still to their claws. we go on bleeding,
kneading this pain for
buttered buns & cheese aplenty. thinking is wheesy and we are spun tonight; a little too
much light, despite the contradiction. we pull the music up over our ears, forget the
tattered cover. a poet & philosopher's playroom, kept by scorpions whose tails wiffle at
a whisker's twitch. don't flick the light–switch.

finger this

i. some jingman sings in her gallows. a haunting we will go / a haunting we will go.
slings a smacky axe. bubba enough to roll a head. sever a ring finger. fling a phalange. zing.

ii. castrated bird in a gift–box of bloody cotton

iii. machine–shop man. table–saw. thumb–nub. pinkie–snub. door–jam. bone and blood boiled & sewed. a girl writes with my left hand again. pin sticks. "something about your corpus callosum," he says.

iv. he lifts the box–lid. takes out a talisman. purple & blue gone black. spins 'til it stops. points of death. this betrayal subject to severity. o the god’s housed in her heads. ritual of desecration. she fumbles like a fat alice bumbles down the wabbit–hole. kiss of bliss. halitosis. home again. finger this.