He talks and talks again, making a theory into a candy, a bike. There is a beyond, for purposes swim in 365 pages, appearing in a book, making things for the impulse. There is something interesting about being interested in sitting, in scythes as fair grounds.
Spend all energy on what you fear, you broken rapturous fleeting thing. You try to bestow meaning and the pram falls over, the baby you spent months and years on turns into a plume of colors and goes away, for good? You don’t know and can’t. Every broken thing is born, vice versa too. Your eyes are knees. You fall on them when awe takes you away to an ocean of wonder, of regret, the oceans of so many thinks. Clouds in your vision are as hard as slowly spinning stones, they geode open like books as rainglass falls into your drinking cups. You try to ride away, but your hands make mud as you crawl into your bed. You thought it was the road. Here is the blank page, that makes woe something to get around, into something unafraid. Is woe afraid of you? You look to the soil, to the box you’ll be burned in, to the spare decorations on the pine, tiny hash- and burnmarks, birdfeet on the outside. Inside, unseeable, are symbols made by a carpenter’s hammer, hard to make out in the zero light of ground. You will not end in the ground, but as ashes on the sea, drifting down from mountains, reassembling a world from nowhere. A dog squeals when no one whispers. These meditations, these retried phrases; you retire them as soon as they make it to the world, this broken ball’s paper pocket. Then a vast suchness, a knowing of numbers, brimming in reedy retinas, all gone and full of open phrases. Brackish arms come up from bogs, pale and grasping for your face. Transparent, you see them before you are born into the flood.
My fridge is the best fired thing, it goes and goes, it can find a way to emerge from any rubble, from a voice within your head, from a collective sigh. O my fridge plays the harp on all records, only making them better. One day soon my fridge will be a theater, a small child, a winning lottery ticket, a lottery winner, a lovable stone. My dark fridge hands me crickets when I can’t find my garlic powder, it’s a dentist and an Aquaman. My dear fridge has all the friends I wish I had. My desperate fridge has been to the Whitehouse, discussed fiscal policies with the president, recommended a path to a fruitful life for all peoples of earth. My determined fridge has been to the top of Everest, has collided with a radio wave beamed to this planet by an extra-terrestrial civilization that no longer exists, as it sent the signal 80,000 years ago. My dank fridge waits in the jungle, ready to snipe the narco-traffickers with a silenced .50 caliber U.S. Marine issue sniper rifle. My sad fridge wonders why war is always the answer. My sudden fridge hits me where it hurts, in the knee, on my orbital bone, in the solar plexus. My switching fridge has the nerve to chase other people’s dreams, accomplishing wondrous projects and getting full credit. My deep fridge knows that the future of reality is the cold void. My compartmentalizing fridge doesn’t fear sadness. My death fridge puts in a good word for me in its imaginary heaven. My broken fridge fixes itself, stands on the summit of a growing mountain, marvels at shale and the seismic roots of our tectonic past. My master fridge painted the caves at Lascaux, Chauvet, and built Chichen Itza in its infernal, interminable youth. My bleary fridge takes me to a bar, gets me high on ice trays and crisper drawers, and walks me home in the rain.
An Italian-American Spaceman Foresees His Death:
Smashing against ashen walls, alone in space,/
Weirdly wired, mind warping/
Through the void, veering over/
The vapid edge of madness, mumbling aloud,/
"Per aspera ad astra, you young asshole./
It’s a rough road to the stars, Rotando."