Away from their teeth
You drag your lips
Towards eternity --
Some night I never thought
To enter
A skull

Floating in flesh
Corroded by the black reflection
In the Night Picture's story glass
Looking at your mystery ride
Now I smell your bulb flash then
Trucking impossibly the non-random cab
In vent unit of Face Light Control of me
Where all of your broken machine's plastic time-
Knobs, wires, gauges, nerve copper electing
Exposure laid long and far for this here-man
At seventy-five miles an hour
So sentient the curve's urgency to
Reach its lost green need to my hand brain
A cleave of moment, a double matrix-scape coupling
Collision off of a one-sided road
Of photograph it called a 'world'

Two-span 'T' explorers in-time-ate one curve space... But can we?
Why? Why can’t we? -- see behind the disordered lens
Time and weeds would show to me as
Your camera lips
That distanced
dancing kiss


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

I am a revolutionary alive and now in the city of borrowers,
absolute master of library arts; a giant warring sloth with armor
plating turning pages, changeling bounder with moves as sudden
as reality showing up in stranger places. I, too, see the evidence.
Soldiers in little hamlets - blonds with new smiles seem likely
to know where I’ve been by the uniform they wear.
In a healthy not-New-York Tootsie Roll face I also read
camouflage affect hiding the friendly fire, sometimes
forcing Sisyphus’ surrender with red Camus flag; they
kiss themselves through me.

I am the Brindle cat of 9th Street, guerrilla Wallace in Wonderland war
room; Joan of Arch counters my Xeroxed strategies from her wired-
windowed room, I, chased around corners by giant metal whistles on wheels –
too many histrionic police inside flopping, babbling, bobbling!
Restrained by their plastic semi-auto microphones pressing at my medals,
I try some sort of response
But all that comes out is:

“Θάλαττα, θάλαττα, θάλαττα...“

Overdue to your categorizing streets, engaged in mornings
filled with CPAs hovering over your Dewey decimals, taxonomy’s
tenderness sheltered by refusal to see the forest for the no-trees falling.
“Ba-bye...” “are you sure you want to do this?” “red motorcycles and
green sailboats...”

A fifth column of people and cars continue going up and down with all
the gunpowder of a dog-eared old history text with evil Indians’ pictures
written in a language you did not specify in your exegesis but giving me
unequivocally the monumental intonation of forever
rounded Washington Square:
American Revolution.



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

The letter is why
Sample messages of humanity leap
Through the gaps inside the calendar's
Synapses, far and away,
Into a portrait you sleep in and next to
Always -- but the lies,
The bleating Cuban car horns  --
Thick red tube sounds of oil paint coming in
Daub my face on the homunculus pillow;
Viscous incense -- disembodied, so without price,
As though I were the gallery.
In her dream the hall
To my bathroom becomes 3rd Avenue
With liquor bottle taxi cabs filled
To the cap with diamonds and other
Male fluids.


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

-- for W. 94th Street Mayo of Calgary, AB

In these empty apartments
I have walked past the spot and there
on the wooden ground where we touched
ears are growing up into the room like vegetable garden cluster,
and I remember your sound.
Yes, and while I watch alone I see the dirt
and ancient putridity
panic and cockroaches draw back from our seminal flesh, so lyrical and lush.
And, while I watch alone, the circle passes through me
ever wider from the opening
until the very walls are cleansed down to the horizon;
the snapshots of this naïve hedonist manifesto
of present giving
way to the flowing reality that exists at the center:
a promise.
And the city built of playing card photographs falls;
prepositional surfaces - of, to, with, by -
pornographies that they are, fall
from our flesh.

Now, Lou Rawls sleeps on the floor in my empty apartments
dreaming that if everything were blue, there would be no blue,
"or China."
For Ginsberg was right: the key is in the window of the West End Bar;
for I have learned the secret to the mystery of life.
It simply wants to see itself.


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

Hidden from an early age under army
Blankets in old Times Square theatrical
Hotels; undaunted by the medieval pabulum
Of Alcohol, of Art, and of Broken Hearts, I became
A life. I recall looking out from my attic
Pied-à-terre above the 72nd Street station.
Panorama: drizzled smoked glass men shoving around,
As though farts, urban fruit boxes; the baying of
Dogs in combat. I would stand in
My Manchurian silk robe watching, wondering:
'What will they think about tonight alone with their thick
Fingers seeping around beer bottles speaking not
Of each reminisced mugging's alogic teaching?' On the street
Each hooker's “Do you want to go out?” starts
Sounding like “...get out?” Not far
From Lennon's tomb I walked to a subway car –
Wear-shined tracks like two over-tight dirty guitar strings,
The busted birthday instrument — I found my seat across from her.
She began her Ode To Filth
Extemporaneously orated, informed by thick brown
Army blankets.
She extolled as Cicero, (at once prosecuting and vaunting Cataline);
She held forth — John Gielgud reading Tennyson's Ulysses on TV
For the Union Bank of Switzerland in 1995;
Harlem inside me. She in command of ancient subway forum R.
She, a sum greater than The Partings, resonates still.


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