forchrissakedon'ttellmethisisanothergoddamndreampoem!

well, yes it is. but in this one there’s food.

allow me to explain.

there’s a function of sorts going on.

the place is crowded with chattering people who are well-

dressed and appear to be appropriately disoriented.

weaving among them are younger women carrying trays

of hors d'oeuvres which they offer to the people in attendance.

well, actually they don’t “offer” what’s on the trays to anyone.

their jobs are to remain anonymous which explains why they’re required

to be dressed like nuns at the postulant stage of their development.

when Thomas or Jacqueline want something from the trays, the servers

are to stop, let them pick an item, then continue working the crowd

like participants enclosed in an ant farm.

as to the contents of the serving trays, it seems that the smaller, stinkier,

and more visually upsetting the item is,–– the better.

so I wake-up, take another eventful morning piss, then otherwise

refresh myself before coffee.

                   reconstruction of an accusation

 

the whereabouts of Rene Beauchemin,

unpublished poet on the lam, was reported to the cops.

they busted into his cold-water suite with a stern

flat-footed kick to the door which caused it to collapse

in a cloud of dust, ending strangely in a sound

akin to the deepest register a muted tuba makes.

inside, after the cops poked-around, they grabbed

a bunch of poems from the table and waved them

accusingly in clumsy Rene Beauchemin's face

who sheepishly declared: “those aren’t mine”.

so the cops collared him for plagiarism instead.

                   -a journey between the two eyes of man-

I’m searching for Bach;

the one and only Bach

even among the Bachs,

scrolling down from the top

reading left to right across

the spines of the jewel cases

the way god intended,

and hovering above Bach

there’s only space, space

like heaven, an empty space

unoccupied but for squatters,

the dead priests, who’re

left to themselves,

to abuse themselves

by their own sour hands..

–– but I digress.

I’m searching for Bach,

anticipating the opening “Kyrie”

of the “Messe in h-moll”––

and I'll crank that sucker out full-blast,

loud enough to shake-up

the sensibilities of nosey neighbors, whilst

eating two scrambled eggs

with coffee chaser;

one hand for the plate, the other hand to fork,–– but

Bach’s impatient;

Bach wants me to hurry-up because

he says he wants the world to know

the righteousness of his opinion, and

the importance of his calling, and

what?  so I don’t?

                   Inside the first half of another birthday.

there’s another half to go.

If I split the halves into quarters

It becomes the second quarter

of the first half of another birthday, or

the 2nd quarter of 4 quarters of another birthday.

If the length of time in this birthday had, let’s say,

a fly traversing its length never stopping

flying forward and backward this birthday will never end.

people will tire of sending best wishes under its title.

others will die long before the end of the event.

soon enough all will vanish from the physical world.

but the fly lives on, zipping between the beginning

and the end of the birthday, which closes in on itself,

but is never ending.

In other words, I’m screwed.

           -observational notes taken during yesterday's physical checkup-

02/06/2023

I should be failing more often during measurements of physiological things.

I feel my respiration is clearer (as detected by the stethoscope) than it should be.

my sensibilities are under control, but I decide to keep my mouth shut about this.

he wants me to squeeze his hand so I do.

I squeeze to the point where I'm transported to the carnival booth squeezing for a prize.

my hand grips with force, but the force required to grip with this kind of physical zeal

knocks the ever-lovin' crap outta me. I decide to keep my mouth shut about this.

his preference is to assist in keeping me alive for another 5 years which is commendable.

my concern is that the mechanism which drives his office will not change its utilitarian attitude during that time.

the inverted is an introduction to a kinder more gentle

addition remastered in glorious 

quality so everybody can see clearly

and then do whatever's deemed to be page

worthy on a greater scale

a larger than human scale

a published account of fatal injuries sustained

there, in the doorway he almost made it through and besides

in the end the inverted is a standard wouldacouldashoulda

'cause ya can't take it with you, can you now.––– but

where do we think he’d be if he hadn’t been assassinated?

nearing the plateau held by the lucky man who made the grade?

and were we ever really as beautiful as in the once-upon-a-time

which told us how so we were?

end the

inverted