rom this

......evan + isoline......

A wildflower head with a nowness I am. The ism of absence.
Lookit here, lookee there. Where they bristle—throng together
in pink Samhain.

Loose boots, la dolce vita, the melding

Heh. I for one am baffled. It’s a cosmic
joke. A denouement.

Maybe I’m conceited, or

entitled even, when I resent your

radiant speculations that cannot stop

the brainlike thesaurus of the dollar.

This is the value, the doll’s house, the
virus and the cameraman are

lining themselves up with the dioramas

and choreographing the fate of this myth.
I’ll not shame thy lustrous raiment. Enter this way

With words as sleek as blades. Breathe
your bass over the
codeine cadence

So electric, yet, through the stems we swim in
inflexion. So who's no touch can even?

Surprise the move of heart by glass wolves on bone branches.

This is how we mix like species before

No itty bitty red pill. No itty bitty blue

Waterfalls of vitamin C. The colors are calibrated for sunsets. Why is its presence a transgression?
You saw how we were beginning, you do what you do, but I could not bear to imagine your own
enema of red ants… You want to see me become ekphrasis, the jewel that blooms in indigo.

My violence has its own kind of tingle. Unrecognize the gas-orange flounce crumpling over time.
A comet that might have been. A supernova that might have been. The slow tip of the exponential
funnel with incinerated lips. The vaporising slag face of unprincipled gullibility. The ghost

Birds do not need men

to lie on the roof of the world.

If I were a flower,

my blooming would appear there by itself,

intowards fractal dahlias

with the sun high in the sky

like a road I did not yet know.

I ask the reason all facetiousnesses omen an absence. An occluded heave. Our forever crippled,
our forever suffering. Unwittingly cruel. Uninformed. Brazen. The opposite of the noble instinct.
The unceasing desire. To love. To feel. But unendurably. Indentured. The sense of loss. To hunger.
As we starve. Exhilarating. So alluring.

                      Then the lust. Then the high.

                      Then the new race. To the stars.

                      By night.

                      While the world burns.

                      It feasts.

Was it the wedding's fault?! Why such a funeral?

Your breast with its haywire scarves, a bird like a cherub with my handicapped face so sweet, but
only with the whimbrels are there such truths that stain the dark cupids’ teeth—oh why don’t I
embrace them?

Had they become part of that terrible beauty

In the querelle of confused sweetgrass

the promise of blithely dried out glinting this night in ways as faint as the path’s aromas

and I think, not again

for nothing could hold back my exile’s stride. As a
summer woman I'll be iced with azure silk

feathering benzedrine with zenith signs,

with such slaggard parsimony

I’ll nail myself to the saguaro.

As a sort of skullware lodged in the mons

cut by whole-beaded rondels

& transversed to flay, registrations
lined to the neuter

of thy mightiest creation, my need still propels me toward verdancy! Acidification! Licks of
Neptune! Aye my exclamation point. Would you be my ally? Come at me thrushes!

Ahhh!—hypnotized by thy energy. Oh, that energy! Oh, can't breathe!—blood running like eels
from my nostrils! Please, play the music! Please!—Dancing, as

foam from this
sweet hour

of crashing—

patrician towers—

I'm so happy to hear the weeping string quartet of estuaries echo


twin lavender syphillises dripping with shameless nectar

from these terminal moons.

—and what then shall we all do? No. I shall keep that thought for myself, pencil-pusher. Guidance
of the drowning on the gunmetal billows. Should you disagree, agitating foreskin of thy head-
covering, I shall carve it off with an engraving device; clock-puncher, fluxus pervert.

I want to tinkle in the ficus lyrata.

Make this space sweat its tardigrade-blown brains

across the raft-levelling transduction

of epiphanic bloom

in a megadose of motility

one might expect from a lesser albinism

to squirt before the flood of fake teeth

from titmouse to face paint

I've been picking plumerias

millipedes from the moist litterfall

in mutant roots and network decays in

as extreme a helium voice with coriander fire


being drowned under the maestro’s tongue /

it/ himself/ them/ himself/ it, the rhythm
of radically maladjusted oscilloscopes

taking a novation in

the drip, drip, drip of sand

in murder, in celibacy, in penitence, in fruitfulness & contortion.

Such is the exposition of man, every beating heart. Betrayal, dispassion, departure. No softer, no
quieter, no more peaceful, for thy fervent tendril of embrace is shewn. A trust, a shroud, the vista
of a violent threnody. To fury out of bondage out of love.

Amur chokecherry, fleabane, carpathian bells, and mullein.

In the light they might rise their throats wide, ruminating of something
monstrous in the thunderheads.

Nothing is impossible.

Because the world is wet.

Quail sounds behind the face, behind me.

That I impale my eyes on the circuit of paradise when with diaphanous gloop
smoke and toxic flora of a compendium of infections
hold to sacrifice the direction
& splice in the bull, maneuvering to
some hegemonical metonym.
0 to circus
could put a gun in the muzzle of a fascist star
and so they fade back to their mothers they have fled and gone out to seize
the dead and distant nights
frozen in the hosts of film
on Colony of shoosh and over
the saints of war
inhere themselves under the panics of aesthetic demolition
as brides in the voltaic flesh of putrid water
the sun burns me under its chariot of flowers.

The sun burns.

Please, play the music! By God!—Dancing, as foam from this sweet hour

of crashing.