Into the Midst of Objects

​​ 

Some would say, in the slick roll

of the great sea, you can spot bright

flashes from the institutional

poem’s proprietary schema. Like it,

this and most other days tend to take

the shape of their container.

And in the airless anteroom

before a pharmacy, you are primed​​ 

to hear​​ that bettered sub-genre​​ 

of quiet as you perform​​ 

the productive idleness of witnessing

the market. Elsewhere,​​ 

the undersea craft​​ speeds away​​ 

leaving you with some big idea

about yourself. That it’s taking​​ 

with it your​​ complicity, for instance.​​ 

The soft institution,​​ sublimed​​ 

into the sleeps of trees or dreams

of herbs, acts on you, creating​​ 

other newer​​ forms of quiet.​​ 

And that's how things will sort

out till you’re left there, again,​​ 

to study​​ what it does and all you​​ 

don’t do​​ about it. Or maybe I’m​​ 

just lonely​​ and all this in me​​ 

no means might move

to come to thee and be thy love.

The cold bright drugstore​​ 

is a garrison​​ and you are​​ 

its refreshing logic​​ that follows​​ 

me on my errands.

Variations on a Theme Park

I have seen a study which suggests​​ 

inside the catacombs underneath

Universal Studios, they’ll come

along this way seeking skulls

or tracks or prints of cartoons

long since abandoned by the park

’s synergetic theming. But the truth​​ 

is, across all our more warmed-over​​ 

timeliness a certain control wants​​ 

to be exercised out of or over me​​ 

I have never known. However,​​ 

in a manner consistent with the long

administrative traditions observed

in this astringent, Primatene Mist​​ 

of a time, what I feel strongest​​ 

is envy for its distinct command​​ 

of the room’s central argument,​​ 

having myself long since slipped​​ 

into and beyond the public domain,​​ 

to only repeatedly come to in the​​ 

recent past, feeling for drafts​​ 

of air emanating from the sidewalk,​​ 

indicating the presence of caves.​​ 

And at Length, Galactus Replied

At some point you suss them out,​​ 

the dark statistics that account for​​ 

most things. Could be the temperament​​ 

at which acidulous rain replenishes​​ 

the frontier, I don’t know. Yet,​​ 

what you do with those figures,​​ 

how you carry them back​​ 

with you as you return,​​ 

consensually, from taking​​ 

out the trash, doesn’t determine​​ 

nearly as much as it should.​​ 

The month still falls, unarranged,​​ 

across your car.​​ The sentinel​​ 

of your personal circumstances​​ 

still zaps your brain. However,​​ 

had you been clever enough,​​ 

as the evening developed​​ 

into suburbs, and they

themselves were considered​​ 

and recollected in noise, by you,​​ 

maybe some newer, potentially

insurgent meaning might’ve exerted

pressure on them both to part

the pink clouds, revealing​​ 

any muscularity or collusion​​ 

on your part when, at night,​​ 

all this stuff you say you don’t

know you know re-enters you.

Instead, in some place outside

the chain reaction of your intent,​​ 

a bumpkin uninhibitedness slides

around the terrarium. The VCR

still chews the day’s tape. And

among your motives, I superintend

a grand banquet.​​ 

These poems borrow language from the following sources. 

Into the Midst of Objects

The Eternals #1(1976) - Jack Kirby

The Nymph's Reply to the Shepherd - Sir Walter Raleigh

These Lacustrine Cities - John Ashbery

Parks and Ponds - Ralph Waldo Emerson

Carl Rove as quoted in the New York Times 

Variations on a Theme Park

Werner Herzog's documentary​​ Cave of Forgotten Dreams.

And at Length, Galactus Replied

Preface to Lyrical Ballads - William Wordsworth 

The Cloud Corporation - Timothy Donnelly 

The Silver Surfer Vol 2, #1 (June 1982) - Stan Lee