The Ghosts of Jay MillAr (18 page)

are so blue against

taking a piss

the burgundy wall

into the toilet

there to receive

into the visions of it

Long Playing Record

the child's first memory

would of course be the rain

falling out of the sun

& into the sky & at

the exact moment it touches

the earth evaporating

Untitled
^*

This poem is called
FUCK YOU
& is dedicated

to all those whose tyranny & greed will forever

spill me into contemplations of living poverty

within the trenches of stress, which is

Satan's realm for these, the tears of our

present torment, as our hopes & joys,

happiness & the like, are struck down

in these the years of our lives, the core of which is now,

& tomorrow, & for all time. Someone is yelling

at me about the present. It is not my fault. As long as the

flood of the violent awash the land & work their ways

against the useless & stupid golden sun

Utopian dreams of our ancestors. These, all blazen

with colours/feelings/conversations & the like

COMMUNITY

the manifold of beauty in our otherwise meaningless lives,

WE ARE ALL GOD FOR THEIR SAKE

\/\/\/\/\/\

they all become stressed to the point of non-being

here inside the lurching shine of false democracy

fake/fake/fake

(tyranny/democracy/greed)

Vote Now

Of Joy & in Sadness

There's a particular brand of rain

Music that falls through the old radio

Joy of falling without worry

Landing exactly where you meant to

Listening to Rachmaninoff & the rain

 

Down Near The Creek Where The Rainbow Trout

walking beside the creek dad

points out how the setting is made

entirely of its components

just by being there it seems &

I declared the experience of nausea

in what appeared to be a spoken language

& everything

immediately witnessed was necessary

to disappear within myself

until the experience

&

I puked till I felt better

sorta digested spaghetti coating

the autumn goldenrod

quite a surprise no an honest shock

to find it there

the glistening sway

within the scenery

&

each of the components

one after the other

turn around as I turn around

that sweep

took them all in again

climbing up from the edge of the creek

over & over

until I am gone

dad waits there chewing tobacco

What It's Like

balanced precariously the half shells of broken eggs

each containing the yolk of a slightly larger species

the delicate squashed membrane bleeds perfectly within itself

walking upon them is much like falling over

without fear in your heart

of the possibility within each one of becoming a whole collection

i was concerned with my political state upon waking

that my first thought was of this language & in it itself everyday

Eclipse

I have not perhaps

remembered

seeing your eyes

for days

aloneliness

messinessness

two fried eggs:

eatin em right out of the pan

eatin right outofa sway the middle

of the kitchen floor has now

taste?

no, i don't think so

stupid plastic yellow & white

hunger so dull you just fill it

another day coming to end

darken into light decay

where you are what you

are doing tonight

On Imitation

after Jay MillAr

I remember having to give

a talk for a philosophy class on

'the sonnet' & not having

time to reseach anything

wrote all the poems himself

& placed the names

of famous writers

at the bottom of each page

except the one by Shakespeare

for he is the source of all imitation

a cliché sadly

& what we must all become

spend a good hour talking

about them in the third person

 

Looped

:

the

city

to

repeat

or

restrict

the

:

Liz Phair

the birds have started using the feeder at last

small bodies the size of each feather made to

shift variously as angels other than themselves

regarded one eye at a time, stealing seeds & glances

through the dirty window language pulls at the air

of gravity along a line of the planet flying

then silence caught up in the frenzy of sunlight

New Breath