The entire teraverse was in my stomach, and too,
All ancient timestrophe through the sons of Vonnegut in there,
Like Dresden scene in Slaughterhouse 5 film; they shot the doll soldier
Dead! Quite unrequited, lay Dresden; my love. -- He said to a graduating
"Class, be prepared from here on out for things to get
Unbelievably and undeviatingly worse." Anyway, close   
To that, Al "Bene" Nero fiddles with my chorded neck
While the phone burns.

So much so, that drilling into your frozen photo and a year's electronique
Oil Shale -- you with avant-garde shades -- compiles now (felt it land tonight)
A snowflake that I missed feathers me to understanding. It strides the Unreverse
And kicks Capricorn's Goat in the rich substance of her connect-the-strings cat gut. 
I only hope you are still free, I only hope you think of me, as once you
Did "high in a sycamore, glad and away," I only hope you dream hour
After-hours of dance: mambo, salsa, cha cha, waltz, in a little black dress.
Dance, not dream. Dance not, dream.

Samba... yet, churned up tigers don't turn to butter, if you will not melt, I mean.
Don't show me a love that ripens out of the Medusa's ten tackles. Suffice to say,
There is a part, Unique Lydia Flake, suspended within the cool air of The Great
Chambers Of The Liquid Night, never better than when he ruled it -- and he did rule:
Vladimir Vladimirovich Mayakovski. Near absolute zero, solid, not a lingerie-bikini
Pundit man, but selected for any wind O! wind oh why! why! The great Russian
Futurist did not see it coming: perfidy. It abideth not with his young dreams!

Once in a chauffeur's flop I drank some pleasant beer, quite alone, in Milton's "bliss
Of solitude" -- hard to find in Bukowski's War All The Time, yes? -- I was glued and
Listening to her simple big-little Johnny River (gave me a g-string in Ellsworth, WI,
In the beer storage cool of ad hoc green room, my nose had started to bleed on-stage;
saw his eyes widen, so I only used "the drama of it" for a couple moments)
Like the city-town's Tennessee people reading me a newspaper on the air, much as the
Missing chauffeur in "Sunset Boulevard". Magical; I warmed to those voices
In a charming chair, quite away.

But I returned. I, Vladimir Vladimirovich Mayakovski, near absolute zero, very fine
Tuned In Quick! Hide! 1938 Radio. The second Gloria, Antonin Artaud, treated me
To "the Theatre of Cruelty” ...And Its Double in that horror; prolegomena to the
Other -- insane horror -- a Hans Christian Anderson-Ville
Next Door Street Opera Memphis.

© W.D. Brindle
 ________________
Home: www.gobi-igloo.com
Work: www.esperancesp.com

Move to me here now, where the sofa stores meet the sea,
And we will descend, sensually swirling, mistically, via wine poem
To the ghostly tracks of David Lynch's scenes Shot-enhauer shot shot
Shot-enhauer's real sexy hot -- "The Fatal Sure" Lynch-Honey Naomi
Watts re-making of Mulholland Dr. Josef Mengele? "'Here it is, take it.': 
BANG!"
That line should have been in the office scene I just now read, but very few
See what I do, and nobody could know I'm in your shower, Alfred ii. I think
Better, wet; prefer wine to blood (or worse). Oh, I almost forgot: Eddie was
Betting at the track, using his own blood this afternoon; he was on a date
With "The German Girl". They won a tanker full of the rare stuff. Red Gold,
Baby! And lately, gibt es viele L.A.E.R. shots -- that Hollywood corn
Syrup spikes up the value, see? So they made out, I can tell you. With
Apologies to my pal, Bill Burroughs' as southern insular community kid says:
"Spiking with a heavy German Ac-cint!"  

I had the Denny's guy's dream, kind of, but in mine I reach inside you to
Find the magic DOS of eternity -- amused by us all through a powerful lens:
Vagina. You and I were crying tears of milk, Darla, while the music swelled
Real poignant - like. In tonight's feature dream I star in a movie called "They
Paved Hitler’s Brain" -- another David Lynch knock-off, but what can one do?
I'm a union man -- I don't cotton to platel(et_[ss]) plagarism, even in those LAX
Dreams -- I will give myself this mulch credit as Poemauteurtraumer, I do not
Allow myself to dream of Betty or Diane or Rita or Camille; I'm a professional!
Albeit, Sal from Simple's Karaoke Bar in Burbank told me directly, quite stern
Of face: "One must either dream -- or find themself a nice little asylum in which
To scream." It's all ach-in' to the justice system in a small "town" in extreme
Western North Carolina. A County Clerk's "hid good" town.

In front of Ford’s Theater, this afternoon, at a hamburger stand near the track,
The beach nut gum trees cool the two's blood winnings tanker trailer, so gently. Eddie says, in a rare lucid moment, "It’s too bad I’m moving more and more to
The North each day, on a freight so slow, with no eyes for sofa stores. It's all
About blood money, now, German Girl: seas-of-it!"

As in the come-on HollyCarn[ai]Val Love Story: "Night descends on Los Angeles.
"Millions of lights down below twinkle like stars." --David Lynch
"Motel - Motel - Motel, broken neon arabesque. [more at: Nazi, sorry Bill.]
"Have you ever scene the rubes (Plötzlich Benutzer Nacht geöffnet Klieg Lights)
Take a [screenplay] apart, after they've wised up?" --William S. Burroughs
FADE TO CEDITS: "For Ezra Pound,
il miglior fabbro."
"Eliot's poem is prefaced by a quote from the 1st century A.D. Satyricon of
Petronius In Greek and Latin." And in Dave's Canal they would love you
To read It, for three reasons ["not specified here"]. PSA advisory-master Bill B.,
Read him instead. And stay the bloody hell out of "Hollywood's" theaters:
The showers.

© W.D. Brindle
 ________________
Home: www.gobi-igloo.com
Work: www.esperancesp.com

[an excerpt from the short story "Homonymous D." (for Bob Carson)]


     "No, you go first!" Anne said, holding her poem to her pearls. Out of my
oversize wallet-daytimer came a companion, a recent poem of my own. I didn't
remember when we had started talking about poetry. We'd been drinking to the
point where topics were arriving capriciously.
     I said 'okay'. My audience included Gary and one of the waiters. Managing
to stop our host from delivering a diatribe on the number of unpublished poets
in New York City, I read in a reflective mood which largely obtained my own
self-re-seeing of how attracted I was to Anne:

 " House of Mirrors

 He had to disappear among whispers, vapor
 White as winter in the frigid fear where
 Slogans halt lovers, and the poets, princes made
 Pariahs fasting for the word, become double remove
 In slick Times Square telemarketing brothels:
 Sick junkie beside him shivers a stuttered: '...aluminum siding
 Is good! But Mrs...Mrs...' misses his shot again in crumbling

 Soot tower -- ER doctor disdains street specimens with carny tent urge-
 Endless gun oil eye injection panic splay head gyrhetorical hydras'
 Obscene combustion engine auto erotic grease gutter rod roar
 War whore of Queens! 'Zat ol' Bill Burroughs hid good
 In the very last broken phone booth 'atta here, man? So far
 Away from Butler Street there's two dogs humping outside this
 Terminal Bar amidst the busted glass climax of some dead vehicle...

 Bartender/barker slaps the counter with his cane, motioning
 The poet towards a barstool near the picture window
 With heard-in the-stomach sideshow metallic
 Quirk of nasal jawvoice come-on:
 '...mistakes of nature all, and all of them ALIVE
 ALIVE! ALIVE! ALIVE!' "

     "You wrote that, Owen?" Anne said in a quiet voice, "It's really... I
feel... excellent; wow! those painful images really penetrate a person. I'd
love to know more of your things...sometime. But now I doubt you're going to
think much of my little opus..."
     Gary said, "Yes, come on, next!"
     She was surrounded so, after only minor excuse-making, her fingers went to
the Braille dots on the paper she had been holding. Her voice caressed the words.
Caressed her own words:

 " palm

 ...and then wild and stagnant
 i saw the pretty songs
 all along a trail out of doors
 giving at intervals
 a view; a short term memory.

 until I came to a blind beach,
 where waves like lashes were heavy-lidded,
 all their dreams long since removed;
 and I, one of those tidal designs
 escaped at night on the shore,
 your voice, filling the water
 my own eyes.

 grasses, all the named bodies;
 and spun tales of a woody lore;
 invisible heroes who leave soporific tracks --
 transcend every arabesque of metaphor or air to you:
 a moment, a good story.

 here is my tree. Hold on...
 both hands soft enclosures on wet sand,
 make no tracks -- rather,
 cut across
 paths; watch the travelers in their tale

 making the heavy early earth again --
 thought itself --
 inexplicable iridescent moss
 i lie back on like some future
 song i need you to sing for me."

     Gary and I had competed with each other to find the right words with which
to admire Anne's poem.
     I said it was a word sculpture of organic existentialism, but had no idea
what that might mean and took another sip of my sherry, a bit befuddled. We
finally gave up.
     Anne could write. And, I discovered, she was a person who blushed prettily,
too. One of the waiters even came over and kissed her hand, complimenting her
in a thick Italian accent.
     "Okay, wordsmiths," Gary said in a challenging voice, having missed his
earlier chance, "a couple of serious writers like you ought to know the two
words in the English language that contain all the vowels once and in order.
Though, hey, don't worry if you can't, we'll just pretend that it's the wine
and the sherry making you moderately forgetful."
      I said, "Well I'd really have to be facetious to try and tell you we've
been abstemious for the last six hours, wouldn't I?" His face looked for
something to do. Anne made a noise of delicate surprise and asked him if we
were official writers now. Genuflecting with his Times newspaper to his stomach,
he said with comical pomp that certainly we were, and then turned to fill a
drink order from his wait staff. I used that opportunity to tell Anne I'd
already had another Sphinx put me through the same drill at The Algonquin
Blue Room a couple months ago. She giggled and jabbed me in the ribs.
     When he sidled over to her, this time Anne was on the offensive. "'Okay'
to you, Game Master Gary, what are the two phrases in English that rhyme with
Thelonious Monk?"


© W.D. Brindle
 ________________
Home: www.gobi-igloo.com
Work: www.esperancesp.com

There's a bar in L.A.
You can walk right in the open door off
The sidewalk and go in and order
A drink, any drink you like, and sit
Down on a stool next to any person
You like and say
Whatever you want to that
Person you want for a long time and
Maybe you will marry that person
And maybe that person is fabulous in 
Re. love intimacies, Bentley leather-rich, and saves
And heals and other
People may come
Right in off of the sidewalk and say
Anything they want, anytime, to you, they
Want and buy drinks and play the right songs too
And make you laugh and compliment you on
Your manner of dress or 
Your comments, your moments, 
Your choice of drink, stool.
You can talk to that person about
L.A. or the bar or bird
Songs or moving to New
York City or another stool, a
Different, a better stool,
And starting over there right in
Off of the sidewalk
And order.



© W.D. Brindle
 ________________
Home: www.gobi-igloo.com
Work: www.esperancesp.com