MADE FOR YOU AND ME 1: hive Being (Stanzas 2016—part 34)
Let's workshop this stanza sequence about caskets, spell candles, street fights, red flags of credibility, oneness with the cosmos, scrotal stretching, cannibals, parents watching kids play, Heidegger
pricey magick-with-a-k candles promising prosperity underbelly barnacles of the bathtub spout the oldest portions of dreadlocks sun-bleached a primal urge to howl with the ambulance siren soothed by dying words intended to self-soothe our need to keep saying what has been said never forget the magic of watching an other watch the stars the casket thuds in on itself with the tamping of dirt by the yellow excavator stock photos on websites, like center-justified poems, exude an anti-credible air pull over on a rural highway, black in engine silence, to feel exposed in that vastness long out of mind characterizing yourself to others in ways long obsolete, only because those ways— always ready to hand—surge forth legato that the aphorist does not conduct himself as is expected from a cynic is perhaps a sign that, contrary to his repute, he is less a cynic than someone wanting to spur change the boy would fold a scrotal flap in onehanded grace full around his pinky—ring finger tucking flap-crest into flap-body, skin coiling that rolling pin like dough guitarist mouth struggling to speak in the zone pain meds more for the parents than the wailing infant that stage where you find yourself putting off jerking off like a chore insecure enough to condemn those who try to understand the rainbow instead of just standing in awe of it not only was it blatantly wrong to call all blacks “cannibals,” real-life cannibals (say, in protein-starved pacific islands) were not even the “cannibals” (the brutal savages) fantasied by Killerpeans to cope with themselves being the real-life brutal savages the sudden smile of parents down at us, immersed in play, back before we could grasp the reason since we often flaunt our flaws to mark our identities, what are we to make of those flaws we keep hidden? those so addicted to hope that their days amount to planning thinkers of the German language, in which “Sein” means “to be there” and “to be for him, belong to him,” are lured into the view that something is only in being picked out by man’s interests the crowd, following the high-school street fight, serpentines around the knots in the grain: the hobo and his shopping cart, the fire hydrant, light poles, two cars stopped at a green light flaws that compensate for strengths are not only those strengths in disguise but also, if adaptive, other strengths in disguise, as dumb blondes know kept inside, degenerate, by that claustrophobic mood of degeneracy in all-you-can-eat buffets and even in the drinking nightlife of young and skinny bodies as the statistician knows so well, some of the sting is taken away from real-life disproportionality when seen in terms of mere numbers, but there is more: that it is describable numerically is itself comforting scrotums peeled from leather seats “You gotta spend money to make money,” says your Amway upline, his car stereo bumping Tom Petty’s “I Won’t Back Down” if we love the picture of a thing more than the thing itself, that means we love one thing itself more than another from our degree of hope springs our promises, but our actions spring from our degree of laziness some ensure their strong stomachs through excessive worry about how they lack strong stomachs fearing that labels shut us off from reality, their aim was to shut us off from that reality of labeled life held dear over generations people might say it is absurd, blasphemous even (as is said of Ahab), to seek revenge on programmed items of nature, but assault the weeds in revenge and something must change: beasts and flora can be trained motivated by the thought that otherwise what is the point of your efforts—old, you now give everything its full due (reading the poem several times through) and feel wise seeing this—but even here, so the wise see, you are doing for you
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.
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