Jacob is in his manic-yellow
fingerprint garden, dowsing December
winds speak of snow and canned beans.
He called three times this morning,
I let it ring like chevel glass,
long and silver.
I am surrounded by aged electric
blue music, old doors brown
and winter-slanted. With eyes closed
my tongue is a slave-pain fist,
my chewed ears are painted
fabric voodoo clicking,
their revealing sounds cut
soup-meat corners of my eyes.
Jacob, come tell me a mosaic-daughter story,
one about everything stuck orange
in your hair like children
that have just learned to fly ---
because they're gonna bury me
under 20lb bags of bird seed
one yellow-sun day.
I'll remember your water color stories,
maybe eat my way out over quiet years.
On good days
the machine works.
The limbs, once agile,
pipe at the joints.
The trunk, packed with
wrackful love letters,
is bulk. It
only wants to be moved
from place to place.
The other thing,
what we used
to call the other thing,
stops and starts.
On good days
it stops and starts.
Reach me here,
where the wiring is beyond
and the fluids,
so rich and inactive,
Today we have naming of
Trust the machine,
I still tell myself.
It got us this far, deep into
the static night.
That somewhere, a sense
be hidden, cryptic, awaiting
a discerning mind to reveal its secrets
remote for a presumed depth or amplitude,
is nothing but a trifling image.
Thoughts are, at best,
representations peculiarly synchronised
with the events of reality
but cannot brag any privileged link
to its core. Synchronised until
a possible irruption of nonsense
perturbing the whole design,
the whole system of correlations,
evoking new divinities perhaps,
or, more likely, new words and concepts.