Saturday, September 13, 2014

A Pretty Instrumental, or an Abrasive Piece of Avant Noise?

The ideas are more physical
Than what he calls the heart
And the soul of sleep is deeper
Than the heart of sex

I need to sleep with you more than fuck you
But you can wake me and I’ll fuck you if you feel insomniac.
Beyond the horse of lust and the carriage of marriage
is the surrounding between,
the metaphor of love
in and out of words
Where our love can be
And tend as we began pretending.

Oh, I tried a little pre-tenderness.
I tried it out for sighs
(he met a girl by moaning
you know how that can happen).
But you soothe me with your power
And your ideas send shivers through my spine
Way better than any highway he calls the heart.

I love the heart,
The anthropomorphic heart named “thumpy”
You drew for me on envelopes
Back in my daze,
The heart with a smiling mouth and legs
Three dimensional meaning 4 and 5
Transcendent and achingly cute.

Yes, it always stirs longing
And why not call it visionary
And touching, rhythm
And blues. Why not call it
Soul (with the temptation
To get caught up in John Donne’s
Famous metaphoric conceit?)

But one can also call it dope
Afraid of how extremes can meet
Like heartbreaking optimism
(if not optimistic heartbreak, good grief)
and not confined by a Self,
a person, a corporate person….

If the corporations want the word person so bad,
Let them have it.
We don’t have to judge ourselves by their standards
As, say, three/fifths of one, barely passing
Slaves or consumers.
The word person is so 20th century.
We’re still debating on a new one.

I like the word “lovers” or even luvvers
(if not to pass for process-oriented
with no body but a talking face
(without even a head or shoulder
to lean it on)

3. ++++++++

Oh grandma, grandma,
Hear my cry, hear your plea.
It’s okay to close your eyes now
Or open them to death
But I hope we get to talk
at least one more
last time,
And I’m too embarrassed or afraid
To tell you this
Like I almost forgot to end a conversation
With “I love you”
When talking to your daughter my mother
On mother’s day in 1992
The last tine we spoke

But that don’t mean I have to be a person
To have this talk
And we don’t have to be coffee
To be money, in love

Free radicals are scary
Opposites attract
The story of the outsider and the insider
Is just the clothes, the middleman we crave
Between thinker and doer
Introvert and extrovert
Informing the one off band or movement
Inside the loving intimate married couple

And yes she could soothe me
By letting me soothe her
And calm me so I’m quiet
Without being clammed up, blocked up
Before the music lets us
Loosen up, and tighten up
At the block party

And the only reason the host
Scolds us for lacking personal grounding
Is because she thinks the music’s foundation
Is more like quicksand if it’s not decorations
In contrast to the Great Books
That are supposed to be
Our off-stage soul…
Ah, your absence springs a leak?
Should I drown, or should I sip?

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