International Climate Change, 2024




Against record high temperatures the knife crashing

400 years ago on Spinoza’s neck still splashing  

As the foams of a thrashing Big White like jaws in a cage  

Can seem the mere bubbling up of big ideas.  

Concepts arising with Mercury in today’s this decade’s

Heat wave.  There is no compassion in 

Escaping catastrophe is there?  What kernel or

Contraindication of your desire, what you consider

Indispensable physical needs be satisfied?  Is

There?    

 


Organ meats and abstraction this Fourth

Of July ma’am can you pass me one of those marinated

Kidneys please?  Whirled peas and world peace.

At the Kennedy Space Center in Florida or

The other one in Houston a pickled amygdala

Should get a hall pass.  They look yummy!

Garnished maybe with one of those, I mean

Them - marinated kidneys over there near

The desserts?  I am so tired of eating.  Eating

Always eating.  Fava beans and a “nice Chianti”

With that frontal lobe of yours?  You can confuse

The concrete with the specific particular.  Who

Propagates notions, is it us?  As primates equipped

With a third eye?  I have my tentacle like thirteen

Limbs now and wonder about you.  Without being

A team what are we?  I am an abstraction of clouds

And when earth angel has lifted me up to where

He is, after the car crash to which I appeal.  Our UFO

Flights are overbooked.  But viable? 




Down below, monkeys.  The tentacles I told you

About.  Frustration about meat metaphysics.  At Houston’s

Astrodome discovered in the basement - yet

Another body part.  Tho referring of course to 

Genitals as a possibility the claim to details remains

At best unfounded.  Isle of Langerhans.  Whatever.  

Testicles are tentacles too.  But also, pause, cherubim,

Seraphs.    

What New Name?




I’m not on top of things the way I used to be, according

To Kevin Killian.  All those things, faces and events, that

Go fluttering by?  They’re not beneath him he’s beneath them

now.  My house inhales the light and it’s the lungs of the earth

Breathing through the elm, the Chinese elm rearranging the

Green tracery so it spells out the greeny collapse of the House

Of Usher this time as his name.  




Tops and bottoms.  I hear a scream from a passing rook

From a book.  With Shane’s help my fingernails have been painted

This enamel blue color.  I whoosh my hands in the air to dry

The recent paint job and as he gets back on a motorcycle

I take a walk.  I dunno.  On the iffy street someone’s already

Noticed.  The blue nails.  And blue lipstick.  It’s my big bearish

Neighbor and chin tilted up he rushes up to me.  “So, you like it

Rough?”  He demands.  In Baltimore there’s another house

That’s gotten less attention, the house of Poe.  Anyone can give

Anyone a blow job but a paint job envied by another neighbor

Ups the ante.  In Kevin’s house compost decomposes 

On the floor of the basement but up rickety steps through

A trap door you’re almost to the attic, where recycled

Art works like demented Calder mobiles on full display,

Like shrieking rooks in the air.  They graduated from

His Catholic high school on Long Island.  My fingernails

Mark me as a bottom though not a alcoholic.  Shane

On his way to that billionaire’s house, up the hill from us.

And I Madeleine alone am left to tell the tale.  Call me

Bruce.  Kevin.  In a jiffy but not on top.  

Again nails!  And again what has dried the

Blood on those hands and

Whose wind is it?