measure is
that which follows attempt, & an ear is needed to measure it. we crack that rain in a boundless
metrical whisper. the wrapped flow
starts where fewer whisper of renaissance. most every release outside of the body cracks reason: it opens, unhorsing forces that impel
the poet, the reader alike. renaissance
is more in the outcome than in the attempt to shout of where it is. the last unhorsing of lust is the word, &
therein all are circular.
more
thumping thwacking follows starts. it is wrapped as poetry, thumping, & wrapped in what is
known & what is not known. the
flow in screaming measures trees’ vibrato. the sidewalk of the reader is outside measure, & we find
it thus, ovular & in gluttony—total kilimanjaro.
more coma,
then: here’s a lust for infinity, an
infinite windshield—find yourself in that, masses. it’s self-evident—it’s below, it’s possible rain, resistance.
this glue is distant despite that
throat’s word: gluttony—total it
up & we all have the same possible light. the cadence is longer but the same cymbal limns vibrato here,
& nature is the ear in which infinity whispers. the throat is forced open in multiple waves.
the longer
the nature, the more we empty it out, the worms reason. & eyes, surely, are universal, lips,
circular, open to that which is already heard screaming. we let light that is opulent be, &
it is. it forces, forces cracks. weakness comes to the aid of the opulent
& the increased field, reasoning every lesser piece to be a longer coil, &
the bodies carefully, carefully stacked. if we are stars in rows then all is released, opened to
below, & the same into hours transubstantiated.
poet, your
eyes are not in the tree. remnants
impel the plotted, deliberate, self-evident arm.
reader,
take at least the eye, & what is here arbitrarily, not as renaissance. amidst the open slide we are w/out arms,
cut & covetous of the metrical outcome.
reader,
beyond this secret hollow, take what the poet amasses to the sidewalk, the
edges open to every twenty-four-hour pattern.
he is not
a poet that cannot from outside the human return & twist & force the
cut to prevail beyond the cadence of pistols’ ventriloquism.
we take
the words we find in a thin, circular compass, lapping eyes before reason. what we measure is more than what we
hold. what we cannot measure is
boundless.
