For a brown paper bag remix by Nobukazu Takemura

For a brown paper bag remix by Nobukazu Takemura

Bob your head like yes
To its perfect deconstruction
Barley loose enough to rattle you
Struggle to catch it

Send you reeling--cast out--pray catch
A hook you might recognize
Not quite..not quite..not quite

A metallic anti-melody trumpet
High-hat staggered lagging always behind
Almost coherent bass drop a peranoid beauty
Its sharp abstraction bidding you step to it

Will you

Tomb

All my words come from the same place, out of the same womb
They are the same words, the same words, reborn now and then
Oval burnished smooth words, obsidian dark or rose bud pink
Velvet curtains hide a plush room full of them,
All my words come from the same place

All my words come from the dark crucible
The place of inauguration, I have nothing beyond that
For it great reams of ink, great lines rushing out to fall heavy upon white paper outspread
For it surges and surges of text, limpid alive text swimming with potential
I would write volumes for this only, the closest thing to god I know

Why should I censure my voice

Just one waiting room for all my laments, where they attach
To form sentences, digging into their neighbor’s soft walls to grow
Pushing up my throat out of my mouth

There is only one thing I would write of
I am mad for it, it haunts my dreams
The fullness of it
The warmth of it
The passage of birth returning to death
That is the beginning and end of all these poems.