Monday, November 14, 2016

Raymond Farr

Broken Word

As a heart

A child’s blood

Thru skinless lips
I squeezed

My little wolf self
Thru this hole in the fence

I used to know was there
The Chinese character

For broken word
Is a ballet

Of broken fences
Broken lines

A psychedelic boy
On the verge

I had no answer
But the shell

In which I had


& resolute

The One Continuous Motion We Seem

& regarding the bald man
& his leash laws…

We rely on the zodiac!
The black house he walks out of

Is a fiction we perpetuate
We peel it quietly

From the edges of his dreams
Another man is putting feet on the rain

& the whole street is a front yard
Smothered in crabgrass

& what about those oars
Out splashing on the grey Charles—

The water like a sleeping friend
Poked awake by the rain—

Are we just the one continuous
Motion we seem?

The Green Fires of Rapture

Diamond birds fly broken lines
Off intimate shoals

& a sparkling language is handed down
A man is wrapped in assumptions we make

Of a man wrapped in a hotel towel
& clutching the green fire of his wet lover

With both scorched hands bandaged surreally
This is the mystery—the eye is a rotted deck chair!

A beautiful horse we pull from the unconscious wreckage!
& all our good reasons for reading Tom Orange

Are just the razed sun & moon of the facts—
Information up & down our central nervous system

& so shove us back down the broken ladder
There’s only more mystery there!

An inconsolable procedure
Impedes the flow of our days

Masculine Redefinition of the Obvious

& I am the same man
The same ridiculous rearrangement of a series of Country Joe & the Fish particulars—

The hiss of the same black ocean like a vibrating chair—
Mother & Father Cauliflower are 2 metaphors for the same identical unsuitable life 

There is sawdust sprinkled like blood on the snow
& I can never lick our fingers clean enough

We sleep on a porch overlooking a tiered hillside 

It May Have Been Snowing

I want to make clear
Something out of the ordinary—

Asylum here is glass!
& not the pure bronze idiosyncrasies

Of mother at the dog races—
It’s how I mourn the sublime

Error that had taken you from me
It may have been snowing

My own head may have been talking
I felt the shimmer of nerve gas—

Euthanized cats bloated   
In a field far off & gutted by sunset

I felt I was in a hurry to leave
To be anywhere but where I had ended up

& so I waited for dusk
A river of smoke floated crows in my eyes

Where are you Tom Eliot?
My life expectancy

Is 12:43 p. m. today 
& there are too many sick birds

Clawing at the grey air
Above the Baseline Landfill

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