Temporary nature of art

years later they see the light
but only the largest quasars

one wrist so soft it lasts a life
quiet as the cattails where a

baby can float, be found, not,
become king or food for lions

lose touch with human bodies
that belong to who you know

abut and cooperate in pods of
nobodies, also talking into air

race of the elders, some ugly
these are my new spirits now?


by Ken
Wigwam #3
Webelos Wolves Weekend
Chukkachank

cathexas

what if you don't want everything to connect
you just want each contraption to work right

what happens as they age is consciousness is
an awareness that vision happens inside your

body, not out there; or that there's little to no
layer between out and in, and what you can

see includes throbs of blood bending sight
copied and pasted optical memories fading

it's a world of ghost images and representa-
tions of solid matter taking on the machin-

ery and personality of perception, turning
the self into a strange otherness of objects
 


by Ken
"I'm on medical marijuana."

furnace vents

furnace vents clicking
is it degradation or ex-
ercise, popping in and
out? galvanized steel
or aluminum, and can
it not quietly put heat?

Ken

Clown

i get all sentimental for hard days
when the battle was out there but
in me too, those fierce hot interludes

can boxer and ring recede/ withdraw
simultaneously; have i just explicated
the next law of the universe and time

no it is only i who hesitates to resume
my sinking resolve is counterweight
to gloom when in company of the tired


by Ken

Splay hope

the waves were in a perfect grid
as if you were gonging the barrel

so we can't deny patterns exist
but only in the realm of physics

what's now, not dreams, more
truly is an offring of the surreal.

how your argument turns clown,
cash money vortices in this home

must we splay hope to phenomena,
or through magic only prove dumb?


Jan Jansdaad
"My husband is Ken."

He died with his eyes open

He died as he lived, with his eyes open.
He lived as if he'd die hoping
That he'd done a little more open-eyed living.

He died as he did, with his lips praying.
His mouth stopped what it was saying,
That he'd given for an answer all his giving.

He left open-lidded, with his mind seeing.
He saw what's for only the dead or the leaving,
But he blinked and missed out on the meaning.


by Ken

anywhere or to anyone

I don't belong anywhere or to anyone
My life has been a zig-zag up these
invisible stairs, cartwheels on air.

To me most of all it's clear we're alone
each in a maze with the tunnels sized
down to our own labyrinth choices.

When you toy with your hair, it's like
what God says: do not trace roots to me,
for I've always been a self-unto unity.

Ken

Let's not

Let's not
take this any further
or end it either

wild poinsettias bobbing in circles is their race up the mountaintop
and while we're someone who'd never say no to a splash of color
we're stuck with the translucency of skin as a crude odometer


Ken

simulation v. reflection

God must have chosen me to be the one to see the beauty of reality:
seven vestal hurricanes, a golden pestilence and a billion hot and hun
-gry begging mouths awaiting in the halls of kingdom fracking come.

The way he makes a give and take is by hanging my tits out the win-
dow and walking by and saying you've a pornographic face, Dolores.
Whenever I'm doing cartwheels across this victory grass o him n his,

be certain to listen while I grunt out the hydrolic parts that drain energy.
Some say there exists a continual mechanism that can be discovered or
invented that would perpetuate the cycles of joy and ascendance, amen.

by Ken

Empty pool

Mike's Swimming Blog Vol. II, #6

Rcvd from Donna this am:

There's no swimming in jail. That's how we made the most of the low chanks, isn't it? Your beautiful nips, my statue of liberty in the deep end with a glass of wine. Or you and was it Ken? standing on the bottom with hoses for the winter drain, resurface and tile fests, echoing bitchiness.

No swimming and no love in jail. They say one's lips grow thin. I remember waking up with you beneath a surgical gurney in a sea of boxes of No-Shiv. The treatment worked on you. Miss the glowing and bumping tho. There was a chick we let out in a cove picked up violin melodrama by Chausson and St. Saens. We think its how they interact with the Filter now; they are receivers and interpreters more like bats than fowl. If you had allowed yourself to develop fully you could be clawing, right now, through the bars on my window.

I don't expect you to get back together or say you will just because I'm here.

D.

Taco Party

Hey youse feeling ennui or tragedy but might be wearing developmental pasties on yor nips, Spike TV, mirrored embroidered Rajistanic bedspreads. Yo pet adopted greyhound is running circles around dogfarts in his sleep man. This is the end of his line. Do you feel the wind? Put yor tops away boy. This street is cleared for wide tires and vice sweep only sweetlips. Do you hear his epileptic claws scratching your plastic office chair pad? Here's where you trade mainlined Scottish peat burns for a frozen Mudslide: time for a Taco Party, playboy.

Ken's rash note to Mike after the final swimming blog entry

They can Go Back to Hurt you

An agent of anything steps into your life and shows time for what it is: a lie.
Let's take the bullet holes along the side of Ken's sedan.

Pick any vertical line to indicate "now" (Her). Let's say the long crease of the driver's door.

Punctures to the right and left are future and past, for a lack of better tautology.
Inside each dark opening, poorly-captured moments flicker.

On the left, they are ripples of attention. Starlene's prism black lights the steps in hot retrospect:

• Oh what a pommeling he gave that love. He was brown nosing fate.
• Showers ruined the yard sale. Now we know why he sought that.

On the right, they are ripples of motion. Starlene's gravity stones past the splash, dropping wet:

• Must have been some undercurrent make him call his mom the next day: eddy pull?
• In less than a year they've got him surrounded at the Club Martinique-- surprised?

Swamp Baller

Hoolie finds work at a reform school in a swamp for jaded chillun. It is too late to go backward, for any of them. They can grow tho.

First, two bombshells of 14-- opposite race, but like twins-- receive him in the palatial Atrium of Thinkers. They show him the way to his cot, freshly splayed, between two metal filing cabinets hanging obscenely with padlocks and combination cylinders. It was the medications.

Dinner that night includes an equestrian-themed ice sculpture and cruise-like buffet for 80. If you had recently fired yourself for wanton / self-harming behaviors or gone truant from one cinderblock apartmentchank nightmare to the next, you could still join in song, partake of the table, and be limited to no special fruit. Of the few punishments allowed, money and higher society were two.

Tho one night a red-headed, wide-pupiled chick or twink, ruddy with astyptic bloom, play hooky big time in the apt-4d sugar shack of latest re-hiree and retired pro-baller remembered for having pulled in to the compound with bullet holes all alongside his Charger. Ken, until now, has never been identified as either black man or monster, except while toying with himself, among characters to whose points of view we've not been privy, and by his own mother.