by Robert Fernandez
Find poverty so centered I’m like teak,
phalanx of salt pine advancing its banks.
Stained basketball leathers reflect
horizon’s truffles. I find an utterness
of relationship so often entails we are
boyish, find a sunflower on the pharaoh’s
lip and seek his council. Exasperated
Barbaras make their way to my
door and in the dawn stand
like book covers drained of light.
Such sforzando intent on warping
mind and traffic. As Van Gogh
paints a bouquet of pistols:
I have a caption, two names, two titles:
broad-faced solstice, hallucinating wine.
The mimosas unroll effortless light.
Watch the shadows like sponges
drink together in the rain.
Peak hours means a street in Ft. Lauderdale will draw
back its tail and then it’s 8:00 a.m.,
radiance as far as Wunderkind
or first year meadowers,
buttresses of cascading hyacinth
into the day’s artless and violent
mathematics. No Timber!, Rumpelstiltskin!,
the feet contemplate levitation.
Mollified in winter,
I became a nest,
white scales of
The soul in Santa Marta
does nothing but drink.
The heron muscled
from the flame's husk.
Would drag her ball &
chain past Nueva Sept.
In Rome, I felt the snow.
In Vancouver, knees dipped
ices the soul—
& Kyle and Sandro on guitar.
& in Mass Elegance beneath which the soul releases feathery caps
& in lockjaw heaven
& in refined mosquito presentiments
& in ranks of Coptic police
& with the forelock of Janet
& in the DT cage with j. patmos & j. cage
& in the magic of blank tarot
& in quinine fleeing Valhalla
& in Cuba with grey lice
& China with blond lice
& with Janet all flowers of hell
spreads its bars filling all space and light.
The body, sentient candle,
Nothing to lose immolation
of orange and purple wreaths at the limit.
We process sleight of hand, awe, satisfaction,
healing, catalysts, psycho-sexual pellets…
A whirlwind in the street and we can say
I approach you (elide), I event, I wraith, I unfold you.
stones like the sublime
with brandings through it
stacks of red fruit,
red piss, gulps of brittle space
weather is not mine,
lust and aggression are not mine
we take the man
he vomits cowries, we straighten
the four directions note:
the carvings do not blink
the ibis, the brick of perfume
stones cut with
berserk lines of mannerist girls
we walk the shore
light’s black booths unfolding around us
& if in windows
if with the gazes spinning light
we are accomplished tomorrow with turnstiles wavering
cameos under each leaf purple and red
I see the souls I know them as they pass
aligned, I am with them
I am beside them