I Dent It Why?

Rip the I from identity until you dent its entity—

rip it into the tombstone acronym, resting in pieces—

milk its titty to its itty bitty butt end—its cracked end rearranged in the middle to a t from en, the lingua franca of the in, squeezed within its lamppost consonants along with little me in lower case to form a lit consonance with anti…

 

it begins with the I

that becomes an ID

that becomes the ides of marching onward towards an inevitable end…

 

the I that mulls over into a comfortable den for solitary games and gambles of cards and dice

(perpetually singularized to die, the d—

the accented the—

the stutter with variations shuffled and rolled into a crapshoot ie)

to curl up and die

(an ID in reverse, to give you an idea of id—

the Freudian self before it slips and dies at the hands of the held—

the stuffy it that’s said when sickness strikes and begins its backwards slide)…

 

an idea too large to sink our pluralized dentures

(from Latin: denti, singular; each alone and small, and each small alone is useless)

into, our many eyes—

each alone and small, each useless on its own, each dilating and lacking 6 foot depth perception—

our us, our we, our pleasurable wee into the wee it that comes next, us-less, only followed by why…

 

it all always begins with Eden and ends in titties, for each identifiable entity—

each I—

each I am—

each foot trudging on with its other, each inherently alone

(broken up into all one)

until its final it, its ty, its thank you acronym left on tombstone epigraphs after the tea you’ve been invited over for, into someone else’s den, turns lukewarm, its leaves spell out nothing, and leaves you cold, behind—

leaves you laying, turning over in your grave—

your final den, your space to hold, curl up and lie—

your under den, finally yours—to save, to mine—

and turns you over to dirty, wormy, wornout why

Dearth

 

The burnt out ends of smoky days,

The butt ends of my days and ways…

 

All the dreaded cards foretell

And let me breathe into the happy air:

A man with a hazel wand came without sound,

And on her breast—an insect on the rose-bush

Twisted faces from the bottom of the street

And other high theatrics

In the dark of the coffin, and sheds dry leaves.

 

Taking for studio the burial ground,

We chase butterflies’ shadows.

Speaking of worth, what worth in you doth grow,

Walk in the evening a little behind you

That men have walked for centuries,

Ran quick through all my vital frame…

Though rose-leaves die of grieving,

We have traveled deep in time:

Museum without statues, grand without pillars, porticoes, rotundas

With small iridescent flies crawling on them.

 

Does he hear? I fancy he rather smells…

 

I am a man of fortune greeting heirs,

Strangers strolled and spelled.

They teach you quick, you have to be well-bred:

A shaken-up false body…

A sentence by hanging up in rage—like lovers…

There shall no evil befall thee;

Neither shall any plague come nigh thy dwelling.

 

Death

 

The burnt out endeavors of smoky daystars,

The butt endeavors of my daystars and waylands…

 

All the dreaded cardinal foretell

And let me breathe into the happy aisle:

A mandala with a hazel wanderlust came without soundstage,

And on her breed—an insider on the rostrum

Twisted facts from the boudoir of the streetscape

And other high theocracies

In the darling of the cogito and sheds dry lectures.

 

Taking for stunt the burial growl,

We chase buttresses’ shahs.

Speaking of wraiths, what wraith in you doth grow,

Walk in the evensong a little behind you

That mendicants have walked for Cerberus,

Ran quick through all my vital fraud…

Though Rota die of grieving,

We have traveled deep in timocracy:

Musician without stature, grand without pilot, portrait, roundabout

With small iridescent foamflowers crawling on them.

 

Does he hear? I fancy he rather smells…

 

I am a mandala of forum greeting heists,

Stratagems strolled and spelled.
They teach you quick, you have to be well-bred:

A shaken-up false boffin…

A sentry by hanging up in rah—like lowland…

There shall no eviternity befall thee;

Neither shall any plaintiff come nigh thy diarchy.

 

Earth’d

 

of smoky days, The burnt out ends

my days and ways…The butt ends of

 

cards foretell All the dreaded

into the happy air: And let me breathe

wand came without sound, A man with a hazel

—an insect on the rose-bush And on her breast

the bottom of the street Twisted faces from

theatrics And other high

coffin, and sheds dry leaves. In the dark of the

 

burial ground, Taking for studio the

shadows. We chase butterflies’

worth in you doth grow, Speaking of worth, what

a little behind you Walk in the evening

walked for centuries, That men have

all my vital frame…Ran quick through

die of grieving, Though rose-leaves

deep in time: We have traveled

statues, grand without pillars, porticoes, rotundas Museum without

flies crawling on them. With small iridescent

 

fancy he rather smells… Does he hear? I

 

greeting heirs, I am a man of

and spelled. Strangers strolled

quick, you have to be well-bred: They teach you

body… A shaken-up false

up in rage—like lovers… A sentence by hanging

befall thee; There shall no evil

any plague come nigh thy dwelling. Neither shall