A Poem I Can’t Remember Writing

⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀Of a thousand dreams before, I thought, they were
only remnants of desires—latent in tree stumps, street corners,
pigeon roos over my roof, white sheen of canvas openings into
the blue sky—
⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀All of my maniacal memories burst like shotgun
pomegranate bleeding synapses flesh—broken matter between
my brain halves—amyloid proteins popping—stowed from vision
consciousness—impressionist gaps between Brooklyn Heights
and Today—
⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀The voice of post-frontal-lobe-cynicism rumbles into
motion, saying: “I guess it’s not that hard to be prophetic if you
simply think everything, Allen[accusatory].
⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀And me—real smug—cutting myself up, rereading
Kaddish for the howmanyidontknowhowmanieth time—mind
alignments on Vallejo-Lange Bisschop intersections—
⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀Glance my male-gaze up the legs of Zutphen’s back
gardens through NS windows—“I can see myself live here” your
sweet innocence says in the future—
⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀Green with brown soil/wet/black—horse paths back
roads—Rebecca alone in a room. Suddenly: My spiritual so-
called undressing—diving into the Cyber-Brains of Joan
Fontaine’s eternal loneliness, sending sentimental love-letters
to herself on Valentine’s Day—I love you, Joan—I want to eat
you—
⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀Tapping in on the frequency of Hitkrant posters on
my sister’s wall—written and overwritten until some
undergraduate student jingles Palimpsest Theory all the way to
sections encapsulated—
⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀talking on couches in the sun with tea and endless
trees and endless children playing in their gardens fenced by
my desire to consume reality—
⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀Tyrant Phallic Spire that leads from
wet/black/rain/stockings of an enhanced reality—to Eusebius
beyond the tiled rooftops from my sawdust attic windows—full
of arches sateen, blank, but bulging
⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀from the point-break-emotions you force onto me
with splinters of Zoo Visitation, before leaving forever—but a
million things about the Dharma still elude Death more than
the gesture of Sherbet the Gorilla,
our genes separated by this bulletproof partition
only—
⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀Mix my Myths with your Textual spaces—the scent of
clenched meat from the cheek pockets of my Friday Mornings—
⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀Insert: cultural memory—wanderings on Van Ness
where the Sun drenched my spur—now comes back to me in
tiring dreams of youth—
⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀At the same time—scared to death by Gary Snyder’s
meta-conscious control: “Read all poetry in your language—
learn another language—and read all the poetry in that
language, too—”
⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀What is this Train Poetry Session to work with—what,
even, smell of asshole?—suddenly behind the counter of Record
Shop—suddenly in tears as Ron and Paul carry the building
blocks of my existence out the back door—
⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀I think The New Yorker fact-checked my poem into
ignorance, rejecting it on the basis that Kaddish is actually
8.95—get your fucking facts straight
⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀“You’ve got no chill” I hear, backtracking—of people
whom I think of as Joan Fontaine—trying to unwrite my
thoughts, mono-interpretability, where I’ve got serious Theses
to Shake—
⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀Coughing pipes that bubble in the yellow room filled
with Legos—should I be out there?—everybody’s out—tiny bugs
running through the maze of bricks and a bowl of Chocolate
⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀Cereal next to my serious knee—
Television mast—iron frames—boys cycling without
hands and smoking cigarettes, they’ve never heard of Johnny
Cash and I like it—
⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀Forest yards—red deer bursting out the guts of
straight sowing machines—tunnels of piss under the tracks in
mosaic gleam—my sister in vegetarian factory procession
behind the television—but I remember only me.
⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀Throwing an old t-shirt over my little lamp, so my
mother doesn’t see I am building well into the night—the reality
that people tell me (I tell myself*) I am missing—
⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀And what’s there to writing honestly—?

May 12, 2019