1.
stitched per tour
first ran over her reason
mistakes made / prelude's faun
faux miles dubbed you see
2.
yarn blooms alien distaste
& murder shall be forgotten
& mornings overlapp(s)ed
keeping living sense
undoubted
& richly rewarding
the FALL
3.
we are faced / defaced
looking into the actions of usurers
we are listening /listed
not listless tho at times one needs
more with than as tentative aftersound
& when gotten tis a blissful thing
& n'er ways asways sons de sons
(chansons — chance songs)
pale grinning lights & postures
& just can't help those things
the sting of many little unseen symbols
the sea being awash in them!
& here & there the serious list'ner
can only take it straight
to another neighborhood
facing off & facing
not a pose for poser's sake
but possession taken possessed
in a way by nosotros yah way figmento flagrento
in fragments ala lyre-icisms
unstoppable flourishes
here is the one thing that is known/un/known
eins stein of wants & ways & instewtaneous
eruptions nets & oft striped pants
&
offed the perif
if we only knew.
4. (for .j.j.)
the way the notes c d
a a e
sc
down the page
yellow lit as if it's skin(ned) had aged
just by opening the book
andswayson taped to its abidingness
bound affusions here navigated
guardians tixed the uneven coming together
spelled grino the flexion playing
grace attenuated & tuned
the wirds the very signs
that l(e)and to the blurred
the way the 2 are sometimes blurred
as the notes cascade upward.
5.
a. regulation tis-of-eth the showering upon
schedules this intrinsic (sic) vile age of corruption
here the slogan is more than the promise can ever be
to drag ragged ugmas lesions caught
& as the doors of cathedrals & palaces remain closed to us
here this tiny sanctuary bleeds its drapery onto the rug with august singularities
b. www. 7th as clubbed prestigious
if only nood the noggin
as if the entrance itself had eyes to see
& then again
this same pale yellow
makes even these intruding voices
seem like ancient parchment trapped
between his fingers
here gone off full cocked.
6.
anywise
here 2 madmen
balanced
upon the rocks &
met with LIFE
in all its aspects
& buoyancy returned
unbalanced
unashamed
& tipped as always
as things
changed hands.
we kill the father
like blood in veins
seep thru
run flow clot
vault itself away
bet the continents
the disconnected cables
bet the very air
these narrow lines that carry us to the feast
that tightrope us across barbed gulfs
sunclouds at the father's wake
(s)unbrellas opening
for the sum of our waiting (we win)
we are the new generation
the logical choice
smoking hand
random flame
blues in vain
we kill the father
only to become him.
i've signed my life away long ago
the way these lights lay on the molding
molding
the way rings & trinkets hang
from the pretty boy's
ear
tiny lights
tromboning
tiny festive lights
with their own noises
exploding quietly on the wall
spreading & mingling with their shadows
red blue green yellow
with that other worldly white @ their centers
that births us all
(& eventually does us in)
i've signed it all away long ago
holocaust & waste
chromosomes & ballads
& the way shadows mingle with their own light
i've exploited excess become excess like all these empties & this rain
on the table outside on the table
i try to be the keys on the computer
clicking away the way
they do
for all the reasons i've imagined &
rebelled against
but can't
oh i can click alright & cluck as well
& still think i'm a harsh but pretty boy
i can dive inside the curls of the bleach blonde at the next table
& come up empty after nearly drowning
i mean after all i've already signed my life away anyway
for both of us all of us this driving quartet
"god" if i could only mingle
or have good sex
or possess every KOPEK ever built
i want every kopek
or at least good sex or good mingling
i wouldn't mind mingling
i'd really LOVE mingling
"GOD" IF I COULD ONLY MINGLE
with those tiny lights on the edge of the molding
red yellow green blue
(the way this music mingles)
on the wall from the EAR
clicking clicking clicking
i try to be the keys
but can only be the clicking.
Steven Dalachinsky was born in Brooklyn, New York sometime after the last Big War and before lots of useless little wars...he has been writing poetry since before then and has always...he is basically self-taught...his great loves and influences are the Beats, Blake, Kafka, Camus, Harpo, surreal and abstract painting and music......especially jazz and so-called "Avante Guarde" or "FREE" jazz. Two key elements in his poetry are spontaneity and the idea of transformation rather than description with a preference toward non-linear, non-narrative thought. He resides in Manhattan where he has lived for the past 30 years.