travelogues

flora flora flore elixir kids’ menu corn dogs august rush illuminated thru scrawl follow the greats not intuition therein lies the flaw that the saints refuse sunglass man folding his arms with a slight lip curl stone postures belligerent content marvelous chisel with my arms bent pebbles and sand fall from the polished form voyage of the ships pilgrimage of the crescent flight of the pigeons path of the comet all rushes into now without event or agenda like goosebumps from the wind taking over the garden arenas canvas bag guarding my trinkets four tickets left and an unused pass to giverny coconut balm marilyn monroe divine would you love a faceless god would you want a faceless hope gold plated slip to abyssinia coins echo across the doors cracking thru the tundra’s nose are the trillions of wicks and flames robes all wrapped in fame and he would be enraged flipping the pews and busting mosaic glass skipping the coins like shard stones across the marble water surface walking across the marble like us kneeling at the dome like us looking up at the wings like us and he’d be barefoot no comb open eyes and heart hallucinating the effects of a certain destination a sacred certain state         — paris

freckled highway slopes yellow with vein vessels goldenrod soleil sleep the great parade of cobblestone meandering thru this continent beers on the river rats scurrying to us shop windows and soap silk pillowcases white plaster attic residents in aesthetic contrasts of verdure and blacks painting of a nude woman concrete full of nude women i am a nude woman nude woman new woman like this country so new facades medieval just mind fucks to me another life regulars in the cafe with strange sounds from their throats tabac following you around routines cycles i’ll never know the fruit that lines these german grocery shelves me among the swans craning necks knowing each other’s tongues scooping the same water which i tread with human lungs like reaching for the next waves all heat cool salt miscellaneous odors not big enough for power but scraping thru those aquatic muscles for froth for wind for a shot at a stance i’ve never stood out this cracked window a finger awaits my open eyes for prodding and interrogation on all that they have endured for perfect recordings and renditions which are never possible and slip on thru like silver fish and bread crumbs white wine and beer bubbles kaffe and tee all so particular and all the same to me when i think back on all the gold i’ve found golden round euros golden thread sewn golden mangoes under summer lickings golden lashes behind glasses golden beverages shimmering in my stomach golden hands golden eyes they call green golden night that seems yellow golden wrapping golden necklace with an elephant chain clinks that mimic golden edges cascading to a tile floor bounce back as laughter from the others from strangers from blood from me from melodious bums         — berlin

q-tip stuck in my head the sun sets church bells rest reverberations of artists’ labor liberating stone whole clans sitting on the lawn some tuba down the path playing a do-wop tree-lined sand and the trees are cut in france cubes the european concrete exaltation short bench nap with my mouth agape O what to do in the fading blue pipes of summer leaves begging for memorials just starting to turn a disc just leaving the wrist two shirtless shoeless men here in the palace park and finally familiar timbres of r&b music aretha maybe temptations whitney not so much english or american but simple bassline crooked notes what i’ll probably play in the morning before work don’t think about that quite yet         — dresden

reapers ink smudged and raven above singing it must be the gloom or else this rhythm kept up by my feet as light goes not waving voice of zoltar three wishes in the attic pub exemplification all right purification all right wrong dedication all right levitation all right no destination all right asphalt predation all right slick-haired sensation all right geometric elation all right that sacred G in the stones in the wood in the work in the bones in the dust in the tire in the wheel in the fuel in the oil in the fire in the us beneath the birch trees paying to piss gotta run to the atm damn the public WCs can kiss my all peace now green grass grown long church bells swinging bug on my chest postcards laid out cicadas sweat dehydration after three sips fresh orange book that mentioned patti smith roach in the terrace pressing down the piano keys the people are out but they don’t listen rust edge leaves won’t stay but your print will leech off the page and our eyes until we lay under with the worms and debris the one suit that fits skeleton threads they will leave roses and my hands empty save this pen this blank page         — prague

think i’ve befriended time our palms clasped over a round table negotiating nothing me knowing looking thru its glass how i knew weeks ago i’d be here wondering the film pixels slipped came and went this flight will end and i’m onto another subliminal tick wax accumulating in my canals made my deal took the hands like felt like rose petals up to my cheek didn’t ask questions now here twenty-one but thirty scalp stubble reappearing strands gone after eons of sun touch water brush still there fallen onto the moon’s freckles tricky fingers pulling the tides over and over i only notice when i need to go nowhere         — halle

fresh reflect past commentary fool’s lens all that you remember was worth a month of presence commencement and return journey and settle did i settle don’t think past it into those trees lose the context in thought “mr nigga” a cigarette but better feel asleep on the porch post-party popped his ears in the full house some current in the back a the head rolling out the ears rather than in soul rather than throat that’s what is rattled that goddamn soul not quite blues no rock and roll spiveying up the and’s and sitting out here the first night vapory ask sashaying around askin you to dance am i where i’ve divied up thoughts between now and future until now and future becomes past i sent those things fast precipitation aggravation and i looked back to nothing but future you see how it goes in your head night-step imitations who’s that talking is he walking on good leather shoes a top hat frisking it around at me don’t know how i’m feelin feel my lips why do songs always rhyme it with kiss the knowable end green grapes i was sleepy hours ago and now dream awake         — astoria

 

lemon drop

believing I have good ideas, how grand

even great

imagine it there

a face you can forget of course

black cat has crossed my path

sam

come down the metallic ledge

wait in vain

red thread in a sunburnt palm

damn cat damn sam

ego of a man

it was nice for a while

concrete trumpets

singing in lines

imagination tall

leaning on telephone crosses

evergreen beats and two pinkiless hands

strike the stars

d’amico metropolis made of three green lights

strap the back, no weight

freight lines grappling

woven pavement stone

real estate open

little crushed scorpion

(was only a sock)

playin drums

drum drum duh drums

give you my gentle fingers

sprawling out

white slippers to try

without numbers

journal excerpt: 28 april

salt, salt, salt & bulbs of blooming anxiety lit from the fingertips, circling the arteries, igniting the brain. trichotillomania, the trick that i’ve played. no ideas, the ocean drives me electric mad as a rabid dog, a bad dog, a dog spazzing up on fourth of july’s eve. to feel the sun, an underrated heavenly bitch born for life and murder, smiling down on us sardines dressed in seal costumes playing, soon to be consumed. i knew it, and the water reflected azure. a wave a million molecules, spitting out ice. a hushed crunch between my teeth wanting no sand. a thread of dark heads bobbing, all facing ocean. what are they waiting for? slit eyes beneath the sun, all in search for one precise moment of parallel times — the mind time, the earth time. deceivingly metric intuition — some call it coincidence, some call it masterpiece. (master the movement’s pieces.) congruent fingers meet & merge in perfect form, leaving no escape for scintillas of sand. but somehow, a few grains find gravity.