MADE FOR YOU AND ME 1: hive Being (Stanzas 2016—part 55)
Let's workshop this stanza sequence about Bill Cosby, baby powder, swimmers, Mount Everest, panty raiders, beauty, movie-theater popcorn, Amway, school reunions, hobos, singing dogs, quantum mechanics
nail-clipper jaws busting top front teeth in self harm America's dad was black before he was caught raping everyone the banister of teleology for our existential vertigo bereaved mothers wrecked by the aroma of baby powder home invasions giving wives their first orgasms swim pace increased less by rivalry than by a sense of inter-lane fellowship masterpieces demoted to no more than wall decoration the hardcore shapes of adulthood pantomimed in prepubescent play killing himself each day to enter the mausoleum of acclaim Earth no longer communicating back to its interstellar seeds of bravery panty porch pirate the arrow of beauty somehow managed to slip through a chink in time's armor, puncturing the heart of defensive cynicism resemblance spotted in a stranger's gesture conjures a primal sense of belonging, kinship's wavelengths transmitted in currents deeper than known ancestry hearing all the reminisces of the reunion, forced to reckon with the fact that your artistic ambition— raging even then—has you a shadow for them too those open to allow meaning to give way to sound, choosing words that skew their intent even butric acid in butter and vomit— does that explain the connection we sense in the movie theater? weeping—that was what she struggled to remember she needed to do breaks on the solitary path of artistic ambition call forth dear faces left behind objects veiled behind a curtain of mist sucking bees from their summer nests with a wet vac analyzing the dances, naming them, was his way to join give it a chance: the dog will sing with you measuring time by average movie length bodily remembrance of pleasures the conscious mind struggles to banish past and present entangle momentarily in a passing scent for the right eyes, being shines through not doing as well swimming against implacable currents to spawn to death at fabled sources unless your view of nature is pathetic, nothing but nature can impose order on nature feeling that he is too settled in the chair to reach for a swig frees him to reach for a swig “Work for your dream, not someone else’s” says the Crown Ambot, the chorus opening on Irene Cara’s “What a Feeling” persecution mania trimming mustache whiskers with canine chomps paunch shadow is better than a flap in its place promises to keep in touch scribbled throughout senior yearbooks unable to recognize himself in the smell, the knees, the moles of old age, he feels as if he remembers himself as a child if we had genuine love for diversity, we would engage in much less slandering and much more celebrating of privilege it is getting crowded on Everest a shared reflection in the shards of a mirror flinging wishes skyward, oblivious to gravity the biblicality of bums a sand smuggler’s contribution to beach retreat local news mobile traffic cams slowing down traffic those who would still write about and paint what is not disappearing boot-camp spit shine for boots and cocks clothes straight—and of course stiff—from the line the quantum plane, at least as described so far, is still “spooky” enough to welcome the wildest of our wishful projections you stand there incredulous about how they can think so differently than you, insensitive to the fact that they live in a different virtual reality (having been fed totally different information by the cyber algorithms) that brief interlude of unthinking disregard for caution, is there such a thing anymore— was it ever there, purely—even at climax? how could he be dead when his boots stand still muddy at the doorstep, his waste bin full of balled-up starts, his underwear still damp?
This is a portion of an ongoing mosaic poem called Made for You and Me. This portion is from the first installment: hive Being (Stanzas 2016-2020). More specifically, it is from the 2016 portion of that five-part work.
