couple sticks sticking up
boat rotted away
there is the word sense but turned sideways there is something else
particles of event bounce around
never bore
ensembles after fashion come and go
these hours, that's all they are, weak knees of once upon a time
of before time as i think now about time, who am i kidding
i can't smell time. aroma of halfway, zest of start.
putrefaction stench dissolved in memory of meat:
we romanticize.
our bond unbinds facts from letter stacks
scrambles events into particles of feeling
with no more sense, no less.
it's so easy to get carried away, especially with now, especially with you
the chill is the sense of the passing
into coal night
panic of never-to-shine
these hours short time
splitting itself again
and again
a sweater on you
is whammy
warbling of frogs
elevated train rumbling to sea
lively monitors
clove smoke
what is the dog barking at?
a pulse where all shimmers, our pulse
for a few hours memory of
minutes or years
outside
someone watches
someone takes notes
someone measures
plant a smooth seed
in jujubees Please
moju jujo tear
the hair out weave
the sweep second hand
tapestry dance nothing
as heavy as fleabite, stubbed toe, no one arrived
at your party and who
are you jomo juju
waving fingers make my impressions leaden
never so small as full
or full as empty
a windup chatter on chipped flaked table
and its ingenuity words
suggesting taffy cottoncandy caviar and SUVs
pre- and sub- text hot mojo bad juju
you were watching the watch
you watch it in your dream
where your job is to stamp
an origin into each plastic toy
what comes down the line
before it cools
driver, spook the horse
enough poetry, into
the seen of dark
You and I don't mean me this
isn't
one of those poems
where you know the guy
says you and means me or I
would cream to mean EVERYONE
(a good portion
would be rewarding)
BRAK
now the thing the thing
(good word
Wallace, sit
up and thing)
I said thing
and thingly tho not thingamabob
too Americana yet
there is no soul but in New England
which is neither
which the parts of which we can't control
rock n debris round tracks
resignation of wisdom
(not to - of)
naming water
(Kerouac in Big Sur?)
h aunts us into turning to logos
both in our personal and spiritual
yeah yeah yeah
but the thing of it
(sophisticated hobble)
is the thing has nothing to do with
waves and particles
wants not to do
wants at least
always has more to do
with me than you
for a few eastwesstnorthsouth
bops to the corner
daisies
through
cracked
pavement
hat in hand
You sing along.
John Eivaz was born in New York and lives in California where he works at a winery. He is the unModerator of SPIT TOON, a poetry forum at the Salty Dreams board and co-conspirator with PJ Nights of the website east/west. Some say he is a crotchety recluse.