circle arrangement for ROYGBIV

circle arrangement
for ROYGBIV


i.

\"see? there it is.\"
\"what?\"
\"shhhh, listen\"

artemis floats
through a felt-tipped pen.


ii.

EEE

fade out :
russian eggshells, painted with the firebird saga,
crush against the wall.

the alarm is ringing nextdoor
EEE
EEE
EEE
EEE and it won\'t stop.

i peel slowly
out of bed, flexing
my neck.

\"hey.\"
\"goodmorning.\"

pools
of oil-slicked dreams
stain the carpet.

outside, white dust turns,
exposed
in the sun\'s sudden yawn.


iii.

i\'m naked.

i\'m reaching to
pull back the curtain :
check for scaling,
composition.

the door opens and feet slap
into the stall, i reel

back past the curtain,
where linear tile outlines
strobe shifting equations :

one plus one = yesterday
one plus two = all my troubles seemed so far away
one plus three = now it looks as if they\'re here to stay

in the shower steam
i remember

foam japanese characters
spinning around the bathtub :
pink floating texts
wash up on the shores
of my six-yr. old knees.

one plus four = oh yesterday
came suddenly


iv.

\"where\'s the milk?\"
\"it\'s empty.\"

yawn

\"i had the craziest dream last night.\"
\"what happened?\"
\"i don\'t remember.\"

maybe
i\'d inked it
to my tongue.

\"don\'t you have class?\"
\"not until twelve.\"
\"then why\'d you set the alarm for nine-thirty?\"
\"i don\'t remember.\"


i.

step one : test strip
step two : set time
step three : color balance
step four :

process
pedals
shutter
sinew

synchronize
an osprey\'s heart with mine
and we\'ll catch fish for the sun,
make mosaics from glazed,
gilded scales.

i park in the quad, re-enter
through revolving doors.

to my left, a stone arcade recedes
towards a vanishing point,

plundered
from de chirico and
i watch the sun fracture
between oak branches.


ii.

\"cynthia! you\'re in a tree!\"
\"i know!\"
\"that\'s so crazy! i\'m coming up!\"

i scrape off
nemerov\'s handprint,
presidential breath, the ash
from mount saint-helens.

when the wind turns,
leaves spin like slides
in a carousel.

bodies dodge
the space between frames,
weaving a dragonfly tapestry.

hairs strain
as the sun sighs.
mangrove roots beat
with the slow, constant
churn of air.

an art student
frames us, sets her exposure,
clicks the shutter.

the sun moves,
scattered overhead,
and i climb down


iii.

climb up

stairs, where
class pushes flat
against the windowpane,
pressing the glass
with a contact lens.

i sit down
in its egg-shaped eye,
a stretched
planetarium gallery;

pompidou tubes pump wine
for the reenactment
of a roman engagement :

starships sail out, glitter
in the ink cosmos,
swelling with the breath
of the solar breeze.

i open to page 273.

i stand on page 273
while force diagrams
tread underfoot, bursting

metaphors re-enact
a beuys performance
faroff, monolithic

flapping mongers
devolve patiently,
in the gothic chapter,

characters pass
through black skirt skeins,
stained with zeitgeist
and antiself, numerals
in raging equations;

note :

1. this chapter is about transmission

2. this page is about opening

3. this word is about leaving

this fragile, written world
tremors with each act,
tripped on hero fonts,
costumed like the image
outside the window :
twinned, cloned, cast :
the long-lost,
uncaring mother.

from my seat, i see cynthia
in the tree :

A. \"cynthia, you represent
the unrest of youth and
the subversive lingering
of sixties counter-culture.\"

B. \"hey, cynthia! how\'d you get
up there, anyway?\"


iv.

i stand,
rotate,
return

down the staircase;
its neogothic windows
give eight angles
onto the quad.

frisbees glide long
over the grass,
chased by tree shadows.

shade falls jagged
against half-bare bushes,
scattered in the eye
of a stoned sky.

tour groups drift
across cobbled paths,
absorbed in pamphlets
of posed photographs.

christine loads a polaroid
and snaps the shutter :
the image lurches,
slapped to a paper scrap.

taylor and blake
kick back and forth,
spinning a hackysack
to bloodless neon.

i excuse myself
and walk to the bathroom
and into the mirror :

\"danny look : there you are.\"
\"yes oh look : you need to shave.\"

\"do i?\"

\"oh yes danny : you definitely need to shave.\"

\"really? does it make me look mexican?\"
\"more italian than anything.\"
\"listen\"

outside,
max listens to lennon
through headphones :
looooook at me
who am i sposed to be?
who am i sposed to be?

i pump soap and twist my hands,
trace along the mirror glass,
composing my bookjacket portrait.

looooook at me
what am i sposed to be?
what am i sposed to be?

turning to the door, i waver
between homeless reflections,

victim and villain
and villanelle.


i.

night comes
around the carousel;
the bulb lighting flickers
with each bobbing horse.

car headlights
grab my shadow by the neck
and haul it a few yards
up the pavement, drop it,
grab again.

i cross skinker
in the bike saddle,
and press into forest park
onto the bike path.

the bike\'s metal frame
refracts the shine
of streetlights

and i the stars
in orion\'s belt,
the turning shadows,
a jogger\'s pace,
the curve of shadowed hills.

passing under the open night,
i hunt for my face
in the mirrors of the moon.


ii.

where is the sun now?

where is my painted face?
has the wind blown it off?

where is the widow
from my dream last night?
and the thief and the earthquake,
where are they now?

where is the starry night?
where is artemis? has she sunk
in the tub? where is the drain?
the fountain? the porcelain feet?

who is that
on bike, over there?
one red light flashes
and disappears.

the world seems drunk
past remembering
the passage of anything :

park lamps pass,
lurching like golems
or i pass them,
clay and silent.

buildings and fingertips
seep into the flow
of an underground stream,
hushing away towards the river.

the pavement looks up
at a noise slurring in
from down the path :

bump
bump
bump

morse code?

bump
bump
bump


iii.

now kingshighway
runs on beside me,
full and overflowing
with lights and noise,
all of it running;

car headlights hurry
in time with the traffic lights.
a vigil takes place
or a night\'s riot, maybe
a comet is passing.

a woman headed
out of the hospital
sees my reflector
but thinks i\'m a mailbox
or a garden gnome.

i\'m sweaty.

but not all over, mainly around the armpits and down the back
like a rorschach pattern, and when i stop in the bathroom
at the chase\'s west tower,
i wipe myself down with some paper towels.


i\'m headed west.

but not straight west, and i get lost for a while, thinking i\'m on delmar
when i\'m really still on kingshighway or maybe not;
anyway, i turn onto euclid to get straightened out,
and by then i\'m headed south.

the moon diffuses
in a glass revolving door

i might be a starling,
aboard the titanic,

caged by a boiler mechanic
from newfoundland.

i mimic his accent;
we all know about the iceberg.

in a hotel lobby, upstairs from where we held
my brother\'s bar mitzvah party,
i pull out ginsberg\'s howl
and wonder what his parents thought about it,
did they cry?

you need a keycard
to get to the top floor; i try anyway,
but the elevator won\'t move.

i turn back to the street,
tumbling over cracks
and jumping the curbs.

note :

1. this street is about leaving

2. this air is about transmission

3. this dream is about opening

facades rise and sink
in the north and west;
and everything casts off
underneath.

i rise out of the saddle
like a blackbird from the reeds :
up, over telephone wires,
in through my bedroom window.

\"what am i doing?\"
\"what are you doing?\"

\"where\'ve you been?\"
\"where\'ve i been?\"

\"where am i going?\"
\"where are you going?\"

i sleep
under a blackbird\'s wing,
or a waterfall,
or the northern lights.


iv.

the next band takes the stage;
sergeant pepper buys me a stout
and it\'s good, in london and holland
and the tulips are my pelvis in mirrors,

my head is a porcupine,
my head is a dolphin,
my head is rolling and now i can\'t run so fast.

where am i? this must be europe, beth
and naughty man have just smashed a glass
at the radiohead show : it\'s pyrotechnical genius,
and radicals scream \"NAZDEROVIA!\" in flames

ladies skirts rise into the cocoa sky,
which is the ocean in morocco, in the seventies,
so dad walks in on marrakech
and prints a shot of jimmy carter\'s underpants,

look! listen! feel! get up and fuck
you body, you mind! jimmy laughs hysterically
with porcupines and a widow in a grey wig
appears out of nowhere, waiting to sit on his hand.

crates of models arrive from art schools
and i open them with a pair of shears.
a girl drifts out onto the bed and opens her legs;
nothing is there! i try to dip in but go through

to the kremlin! the kremlin! the reichstag!
the guggenheim, showcasing god and the beatles!
we spiral up like commies to the roof
where i shoot ringo and forget about

the summer cube apartment
and the girl with no pelvis at all.
on the roof of my head, we look out,
me and my offshoots, all the colors of the sea

sparkle in a glass of tea bags; colombian
girlfriends stride like mantis brides
through my eyebrows, wet after a shower
so i dry up and step into the car

with lisy to watch frida again
and i almost cry for the stillbirth
because diego cried over a painting
that orchestrates her salty geese.

there\'s a photo project to shoot
but i can\'t turn it in, it\'s not color-balanced,
and just then, jimmy carter reels in,
bleeding, and hits me on the neck

but i turn him into a video game
where eunuchs write sonnets
in the language of oz, in a gel from the theatre
where i write my brides and obelisks.

the sun rises and becomes a page
full of paint water : i\'m the spinning record,
this is a masterpiece, this is art, i\'m piano notes
hung from laundry lines on the west side story set!

i\'m what sound? what color?
mouths open and slowly, deliberately;
i slip out with prints of storefront mirrors
and the aurora borealis.

ringo : \"stop\"
paul : \"look\"
john :\"listen\"
george : \"feel\"

the sky is a mandolin.
i walk in a ballet
of moving light.

where\'s artemis?
i\'ve looked all over for her.

jimmy carter is getting worried.
lisy and beth call her cell phone and it\'s busy.

the radicals,
the radicals must\'ve taken her to the ziggurat.

i know what to do.
we open the crypt, wake up the priest,
unroll the scroll from a bookshelf in cairo.

in a chest of mirrors, a prism collects
and opens a rift
in the fabric of the moon\'s dark eye.

there\'s a song and a storm.
paint rains down my arms.

the cave door opens
and i step in.