luminous

Sunlight flickers, addictions press and the smiles of those I love have been less loving. Yet the thunks, smiles, and loud music of my house refresh me for I no longer have to be on my best behavior. Last night I slept through it all, Nirvana's In Utero cranked at midnight, the party, the beers downed, joints smoked, laughs shared. This is Washington. I slept 8-2, eighteen hours. I have not felt this together in some time. In front of me, cup of drip, ominous. I heard a beautiful college girl say 'cup of drip' as one word yesterday, a perfect blossom of language on her pink unknowing lips. I will never give that lip or the first sip up, not till my dying day.

The ride begins again.

Astonishment Abonishment. Novelty in life. Legilelo. To swim where we once swam. Woman as such. Is love a shortcut? Astonishment is older than humanity. It is part brain-stem. Perhaps God was astonished at the first amoeba, the first emotion. The first taste of opium ever. Two weeks ago friends of mine put mushroom chocolates out to dry and they were devoured by soon-to-be-astonished raccoons.

Pen to paper, recorded.
Actual field mice, devoured.
Not until later, though, not until
the train of thought vanishes and only memory can remain.
In this way I am Platonic, my astonishment is based on memory.
Do we remember our brain-stem?
Trauma-yes. Bliss-yes. Fed-yes.

Those memories that stay and pass on, how chosen? My bike trip, her breasts. I almost prefer remembrance/looking to experience/touching. Long whiskered sleepless nights on Oregon beaches, clean shaven sleepless nights with hot press of flesh. I'm going to try for the kingdom, if I can, because it makes me feel like I'm a man. I was born a thousand years ago.

My body swings through legless urban trips . . . Polka-dots and pastels, Pinochet, red-tiled roofs on sunny Oregonic oceanic dreamlike fictionscapes! O, those glasses with thin frames and teeth so white that bite your lips when you get too close . . . No more astonishing being born twice than once . . . Ain't no flow going to pass through me unmolested. Buoyancy on a brilliant wave called luckless life and love I know that is a contradiction! Para-fucking-dox! God loves you, don't call back! So creepy, so creepy, get the fuck away from me paramour, listen to the radio, don't decide! This is not a figurative, full-mouth flourishing kiss.

While this is an unwritten part of life that refuses to repeat itself. Language unincarnate.

What paper, what now? What figure, what plow? Faure's encapsulating mind that shines like Taine on centuries-old canvas. Talking about vicious Velasquez like he's quiet Spanish prodigy-child with a dark side . . . Yes I do know you don't. Easter in New York filled with hollow coughs and crosses. Darkened streets, Chinese tortures, that lackluster Christian spirit of age.
This is not real suffering and this is not a real poem.

Luminous, the gaslight oceantide shinsplinted reckless idle yawn.
Luminous, the Library of Congress system.
Luminous, the tidal moon ignored by man.
Luminous, the sea of coca-cola with aluminum ship, bail with coke bottles and spot land with coke-bottle glasses, scream Santa Claus goodnight as you wreck into cola-stalactite.
Luminous, hope that comes through a hundred and twenty-seven languages and speaks to no one.
Luminous, those you haven't met but cannot forget.
Luminous, the decadent decalogues, spinsters of beastly beauty and naturo-artifice.
Luminous, crows-feet beside eye of believing beholder of bullshit.
Luminous Loopy Lemioux.
Kingfish Culinary Cutlery.
The act of writing is the loosening up of muscle.
Sweep sweep the cobwebs of mind.
Why yes, you may sit here, but my writing may suffer.