Quick! A Last Poem before I Wake

You're getting stoned with Willie Nelson and

Yogi Bear's in this dream too don’t ask me where

Boo Boo hides the picnic basket in these woods

O come morning I know so much about things

Like how I am nourished by shabbiness like how

Half of me is this vague way of knowing this

Epistemological inexactness the other half all

Canted caps and cocky zebras toking doobies

Tonight I know so little about things like an arrow

That feels something soft suddenly feels it all

The way to the fletching I don’t know as I get

Wendy Carlos either despite your blue eyes

Turning up to watch me dance in my top hat

White tails and cumbersome blue cummerbund 

Yes We Kant

Suppose one omits from the experience of love 
Everything derived from experience

Space remains in the absence of bodies

Space remains from the concept of body

What is left over after all omission

Is what we derive from our cognition

What is thought in the predicate of the judgment

Is already thought in the subject

Suppose one thinks of the number 33

(Ha ha how new-testamently biblical

How?)

What is the unknown X that connects us? 

What synthetic judgment—

No appeal to experience—

Factors our sum?

Space remains in the absence

Space is the form of intuition

We intuit our absent bodies

Yours and mine

Time is the form of all intuitions

The absence of space 
Cannot be presented

What method of looking
What transcendental aesthetic
Would allow us to see such absence?

Space is an infinite given magnitude

Having its parts within itself

Not having infinitely many instances

The predicate amplifies the subject
The subject amplifies the predicate

You are the predicate and I the subject

I am the predicate and you the subject

How shall we measure

The space between us?

How shall we measure

What resides in the subject
What resides in the predicate?

We could say that our love

Resides in the space of a priori concepts

Space is the form of intuition

Time is the form of intuition

Time is prior to the placement of objects

In time

Time precedes our bodies in space
Space limits our bodies in time

Things and beings in themselves 
Are not temporal our love
Is however temporal

Time is a condition 
For the reality of all appearances

Our love is not an appearance
Is our love not an appearance?

We intuit our own minds passively

Receiving successive mental states in time
Thus we intuit  the form of our love

Our love is a logic of pure thoughts

Our love is transcendental

Estrangement Ceaselessly Deferred

When we reached the riverbank

Remember how we offered naked throats

The current’s rope?

And wasn’t it always just so just so deep

As pockets where we kept water clocks

Blinking silent oceans?

Our mothers were standing on our eyelids

Our fathers were standing on our tongues

We with our delirious waltzes

O we of ancient dizzy dances

We with wide proletarian eyes

We saw demented violins

We spun without losing breath

We heedless of the hour

And the ceremony’s import!

Our mothers were standing on our eyelids

Our fathers were standing on our tongues

We lost our arithmetic trying hard

To figure out the equation for the act of love

So incompatible with the act of poetry

We heard the tragic lips  

The hiss and then the lisp

But we never heard the word

As If Worth Were Measured by Ambition

As if his poetry spread extraordinary wings

That shed bright vainglorious feathers

During a heedless dash up vast empty

Vocabularies O desperate happy sprint

Through infinitely indexed and ordered 

Winds unimpressed by such a spunky fool

Indifferent to the foolish pluck of such

A reckless and weak-pinioned poet

All debonair and devil-may-care yet

When he gets where he is going what

Does this two-bit sonneteer do but steal

The bone-heavy syntax of the moon

A word-chain cold and hard as fact

And see him smiling thinly as he falls

At the Same Time Suddenly Forever

Bitterly diffuse insight

Accidental green becoming gray

Yet when in all this

Avocado-salad of a day the sun

Too bright for this

Cold month when shall we win

Love or shall we lose

So long as we are still

Obscured by such similitudes as fact

Reveals a mystery

Or for the sake of your music your ear

Finds itself naked

And singing

Once again an anthem thank you

Forlorn sure but true

A banner-worthy song

For a beautifully ruined afternoon

A Cool Blue Breath the True Color They See

Ever since that dip-shit affliction

My sullen slow-burn eyes

Behave like two jaded men of letters

A couple knuckleheads without belief

End of a long day

They harmonize a pair of sighs

And sit on the bed puffing a cigarette 
Pilfered from my lover's purse

All night they follow meandering paths

Left dry by my receding dreams

Come morning my eyes 

Pick fights with my nose 

They speak

When I have nothing left to say

It should come as no surprise they weep
Piss-water apotheosis

I swear as soon as chance permits

They’ll start a shit-stupid war

On the wrinkles of my desert face


 

Your Constellations in an Ocean

Bid farewell to an idea

Abandoned on a deserted beach

Cold wind now and rain for once

Too late

The frigid earth-borne brilliance

Spontaneous 

Fire of your intellect

Your exquisite desire 

Too infinite for such a tiny universe 

For Our Two Selves Beyond the Seven Clouds of Truth

You're here again 

You and your delightfully perverse 
Wickedly tender wit 

Here you are as always 
Disinclined to offer facile disquisitions

Merely as a pleasant means to look away 

A suicide for instance

Feels utterly saintly 
Everywhere tonight

Feels difficult to be 

Let’s just be here 

Calling things and events by their true names 

For once beyond bitterness and fatigue 

O how this honesty becomes us opening outward 

To reveal persons 
Other than ourselves 

Such absolute values 

So vaguely obsolete 

So happily prone to be misread 

These few words 
Tender only the flimsiest aid to being 

Here at the climax 

The more naked we get 

The more clearly we'll be seen

To be ourselves 

Why should we be ashamed? 

The French aren’t ashamed of being French

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