for Judith Fitzgerald


Who were your parents, your mentors  You and your BIG

WORDS   You and your BIG WORLDs     What is beaten

not out of one, survives, subsists in verbinous might through

yellowed gerunds     The book retains the odour of decades
of blowing smoke across rooms, across yellow cordons of 
 time   The colour of eyes in muted portraits of selves   In

reflection, diaphane issues come to light      The narrator is

a liar    will not face facts     twists whatever that tongue

 elects to tamper with  A movement occurs, painstakingly
    drawn out      then scherzo to taste
Books weight too much  No way you wanna get ’em mixed

     up with THE LAW  The letter is the only molecule to

last     eyedropped outward    The letter secures their sleep

forever in the mausoleum   no O terra addio this time   a
 sleep untouched for buckets of time the colour of waste
   -ing away    -ing away with verboten thisogeny    this

story of this and all this illustrious progeny    scattered

among all this imaginative terrain     tucked into caches

  thick with ardent belief        unearthing will transpire
  menis away   menis away day    echoes of the ancient world

warp the loom of the mind   Kudos to you, O undertaker

of journeys set to Monteverdi    that is to say ne’er leaving

a room of one’s own room to pace a steal of a deal getting
 in on the ground floor while offer stands    erect    Priapic
words that offer a lift / words like rare currency in karma

jar / words like  inchoate  you nearly choke on like rich meal

to unacquainted palate   until years later the savour like an

 involuntary memory   coming up on one    at the instant
of display window     What more can I descry   or pledge

to do    Sandwich man outside of which premise, classical

shrieking MAKE THAT WHAT     The the is beautiful

this time of year      dredged out of a stream of coughing
the the the the the the the the the the the the the the the the the the

 obviously swimming in it       luxury gumption to take

a strategic point    on top of it   vulgarly chewing over

vulgar dead languages circling like a hungry pack of 
vulgars   champing at the bit   chomping at bits  biting

into neural organizations at the slightest    fragmentary

nods of sound    structure suggestive of own collapse

via beauty of word beauty of entropy aglow at dawn
rife with interruption   Wake up to plainchant will be

the title of something instead of that screeching alarm

polyphonic breathing when it starts to get interesting

through thin walls, neighbours showering, humming
the type of thing they paint the topical of a capsule

hidden from time the shape of a gaudy tombstone

the type of thing held in holding pattern in display

window, selling the latest whatnot, a type of thing
accountants do not consider         investing in one-

self     getting in on the ground floor   getting over
    dread       vanity       yellow flowers         friend-

ship      refrain of sailing off       horses neighing    a

 random gifting    wistful the plastic violin    another

wheedle in the stack     playing by ear    using César 
Auguste Jean Guillaume Hubert Franck technique
surrendering to musical representation of a failing

 heart     to broken marches     to all that aesthetic

anxiety   and no   even basking in that minimalist

concerto is no retirement plan    no   a box of me
to give something back this sweet season    to you
who know    to you who might carry me    across