frustrating hamlet to live inside, with
wilting boots, blossoming trips across small
grocery stores,
in segmented hobo jungles, the fruit cans switch to pots
and pans, hang from the limbs of willow trees, leaning over
flames of brass liquor store towns
concocting a violence to a cement hovel for weary travelers.
Ignition realm of dust on boots and hands on night, sing
Shirtless, a long legged long dancing,
a chess game for a head, spinning yarn.
Whispers flute
every whisper a flute or an oboe, or drum or a trumpet
every radio whispers saturday to life on a monday with a
flute just for leaving her breakfast out too long and running
away to station --
I will not mention names of the cloud, sit tight in time,
forget me nots surround the life raft floating in the waters
of space
imagine green shoots woven by hand in old baskets that
hold your next soul
floatation device or woven lapping basket in sandy shore,
cancels out all the sword, and fucked around certainly
fucked around
inside out
waiting for a next existence to breathe the boat back to life,
little sip of radio to the throat and muscle, tongue lapping
and boat lapping in circles, round the flames breathing up
the hobo jungle light, flames.
We are the humans going to mars, these are the right
diamonds to use for the ham radio.
I need to know something about you for awhile, that you
will be glowing,
and right inside of your floating simplicity, under the stars
and galaxy forming
the tongue and glass hair that curls by fire and heat more
and more into long strands of dripping glass hair so burned
bright, light bright, simplicity,
across that water fall beneath, the galaxy and stars
beneath, sipping radio.
Promise something to the galactic form. Promise you will
glow and not blacken.
Does EM know how far you’ve gone into the galaxy? 17
years into the galaxy?
Surfing the catacombs of your old nighttime visions
existing, everything illuminated?
A lot of these things cause the surface of your mouth to wax
into a form
so that teddy bears are the words you speak to infinity,
the stars, the galaxy above you,
little cute bears who
out pop
the tongue
and float free the space, causing cloud and puffed stuffing.
This is your language, and foreign tongue now.
Fin Sorrel is the author of Caramel Floods (Pski's Porch, 2017) and Sand Library (ABP, 2018). He runs M A N N E Q U I N HAUS and lives in New York.
