it’s in the nature of the soul to be lost

The songs of warehouse flies
The size of a homemade atomic bomb
Must follow each other seamlessly
Especially of those perched on __________’s nose
(How much, s/he thinks meanwhile,
Would it cost to remove a hair on Saturn)
How much does the manner of singing
Obliterate the soul
How big is the soul of a fly
(The smaller the creature the bigger the soul)
How many of them do you need
To cover the shadow of a vacuum dweller

[The best artists only care about
Pleasing the Great Architect of the Universe
But some are beyond the best and
Beyond the universe]


15 thoughts on “it’s in the nature of the soul to be lost

    in your mention of a homemade atomic bomb
    being a man, you would bring up size
    not color or taste
    now don’t go poking a hole
    in every bomb you encounter
    leave a few for the young pups
    do you feel distracted by musical frivolity ?
    rolling papers or wrapping papers ?
    anthologies of poems 75 minutes old
    poems from bygone days
    poems from famous dead poets
    sorry, no shelf space for skeletons
    poetry 75 minutes or less


    • i want to see how you would react if
      prairie dogs brought up whatever is
      especially valuable to them and how
      you would painfully describe it in english
      75,000 minutes wouldn’t be enough and
      the skeletons of dead poets wouldn’t help

      or maybe you would just call it size


  2. I swear I saw your photograph
    in the New Hooters English Dictionary
    anyway, prairie dogs…..?
    for dry creatures they are very pungent
    known for their cabalistic tongue twisters
    and their appreciation of gallows humor
    I remember seeing them bid adieu to Robin Williams
    no recoil from guttural language there, Baby Bird
    when I saw you make reference to 75,000 minutes
    my first thought was that you have adopted wayward ways
    late night associations with criminals and riffraff ???
    ————–possible popcorn vendors ?


    • Your neighbor left 728 books of poetry
      Buried in the nearby grove.
      One of them is dedicated to her enemies
      And begins with the sentence:
      “We never know who our real enemies are.”
      She died last September being 334 years old,
      Although she looked like she was 62.
      She believed that somehow she managed to pick up
      Long unsound messages from Lemurian monsters,
      And she reproduced them as much a s she could
      In her latest books.

      I don’t remember her name but I’ve heard that there is an entry on her in that New Hooters English Dictionary you have mentioned. Criminals, riffraff and popcorn vendors used to love her.


  3. denied access to books
    and thrown outside to play
    with the larger, older indifferents
    to be beaten, burned, and called names
    she learned to appreciate the sounds
    of the local Lemurians
    after all they were not monsters
    just mileposts on the path of evolution
    a tad bit more upright
    and they would have been cousins


    • People grow mushrooms in their stomachs
      Some even raise fish in their blood vessels
      On their thorny path of evolution
      But she was to poetry what Babs Santini was to music
      Or what the Lemurian mileposts were to the Earth
      And like Babs Santini she was immune to abuse from her childhood


  4. mushrooms in the stomach aren’t really mushrooms
    fish swimming in the blood stream aren’t really fish
    you chose to wear the wrong footwear
    the thorny path of evolution
    offers cruel lessons
    on being prepared
    (fancy forehead)


  5. successive attempts to win salvation
    by qualifying under certain rules
    tension increases with each failure
    unworthiness is the common error
    continuing dependency
    your hands in your pockets
    your “American Nose”
    in a hiding place
    hewn in the side of a mountain
    I see you there in your Old Testament garb
    the dirt of Harlem under your nails


    • i’ve spent a long time thinking what that american nose means
      but still can’t figure it out
      even in the mountains there are mostly vulvas and penises
      and just a few noses and perhaps neither of them is american


        I tell you brother, it might be helpful to have that American nose
        citizens of the Tombs talk on old fashioned telephones
        they get what they can get
        they give what they can give
        you and I are separated by a partition
        unwavering love on both sides
        I have swam across the Jordan before
        I have shown my hands to Jesus
        the sin stains are gone


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