On sitting down in a quiet place
I waited
for the rotundity of
quiet pounding
round as fruit
to mould wisp of
intricate thread
to a jumper to house
my lost head
and flailing arms
the wearwithall of
clothes and a position
almost right
for one familiar smile
the one that announces
before entering this
radius I nurture with fondness
and yes I'm a smoker
and any amount of
fortune tellers know
what a doctor knows
what a warning crosses
its fingers over.
Warm bronchials
and the connotions
of America
the brown plantations
and drying machines
factories hot with product
tar sticky with inhalation
recounting the soil's element
the traces of animal scent
and of the harvester's blade.
my seat formularises
around the happy and non plussed and the sweat of a Malthusian shift
the baccy factory smokes
and thinks in green clouds
of the alleviation
at what time
for when they reach for
a pipe and the bubbles
of transferrence
of three surfaces of plied
exchange.
On registering the harvest of
collated cigarette papers
and the funny material
that makes a filter
what memory goes to clean
exhale?
And as I sit in a quiet space
even repitition's return
is welcome like an old chum
walking my way.
And we smile like poets
that traverse curves of familiarity
no one smiles quite like poets
and in this quiet place
my thesis is that a poet's smile
holds the entire permutation
of any sorted cosmos
a poet's laughter blows it away
like filtered smoke of baccy
and what I like about poets
is their love of variance
silence, no matter how strange,
state no matter how gaped,
colour, no matter how matte or diffuse
is a friend.
And they smile, even if pain's familiarity asks to wrestle like
a spoilt child
and the poet will often say ''again''
and night's gown is home
and day's globe is home
the swell and the strict
are home
even that old Germanic unheimlich is home
real home
to poet's and their place of
quiet
pensees to the main
shipwreck to their cabal
dance to the lively wenches
scowl to the small bean collectors
our fascination has killed gods
and made entire terraneas in
a hand of pages
and we too rest
here, sit, friend
I am sure your work has dragged
your cat's fantasy some way
for the rotundity of
quiet pounding
round as fruit
to mould wisp of
intricate thread
to a jumper to house
my lost head
and flailing arms
the wearwithall of
clothes and a position
almost right
for one familiar smile
the one that announces
before entering this
radius I nurture with fondness
and yes I'm a smoker
and any amount of
fortune tellers know
what a doctor knows
what a warning crosses
its fingers over.
Warm bronchials
and the connotions
of America
the brown plantations
and drying machines
factories hot with product
tar sticky with inhalation
recounting the soil's element
the traces of animal scent
and of the harvester's blade.
my seat formularises
around the happy and non plussed and the sweat of a Malthusian shift
the baccy factory smokes
and thinks in green clouds
of the alleviation
at what time
for when they reach for
a pipe and the bubbles
of transferrence
of three surfaces of plied
exchange.
On registering the harvest of
collated cigarette papers
and the funny material
that makes a filter
what memory goes to clean
exhale?
And as I sit in a quiet space
even repitition's return
is welcome like an old chum
walking my way.
And we smile like poets
that traverse curves of familiarity
no one smiles quite like poets
and in this quiet place
my thesis is that a poet's smile
holds the entire permutation
of any sorted cosmos
a poet's laughter blows it away
like filtered smoke of baccy
and what I like about poets
is their love of variance
silence, no matter how strange,
state no matter how gaped,
colour, no matter how matte or diffuse
is a friend.
And they smile, even if pain's familiarity asks to wrestle like
a spoilt child
and the poet will often say ''again''
and night's gown is home
and day's globe is home
the swell and the strict
are home
even that old Germanic unheimlich is home
real home
to poet's and their place of
quiet
pensees to the main
shipwreck to their cabal
dance to the lively wenches
scowl to the small bean collectors
our fascination has killed gods
and made entire terraneas in
a hand of pages
and we too rest
here, sit, friend
I am sure your work has dragged
your cat's fantasy some way
