Da Fugue Zone #50: The Machine Zone #1-50
vomiting gold in a turning wheel where production soaks production
fire, fog echoes in spheres through metal stencils trilobites
pour jacked dads of Cornell, blown warp whistles
to uproot lives to star-maps they can read in an aleatory frame stream
Buffalo’s isles lean over
a nail salon in Lowell, I wake up, stumble, my baby meat
explodes—lo! styrofoam comets
in the eyes of an AI sun of a hostile workplace of mist lime hums
spreading sidewalk, all we have to do is work
unto sadness, unto a fossil of nerves flaring through cell walls
brittle web of mist in an engine heavy enough
to haul off what you know, vomiting gold during the Friday crush
sliding calipers, weeks
rolling waking in union of I don’t know what
someone shot off the valve of your articulation
put the joystick down, was it a kiss, rosy, or hand or toilet
erupted from the lake?
in the net of their life, knots pulled twice, oatmeal-clogged
key-lime lights, staph-infected tomorrow
flaming trains flung into the roundhouse--you say who counts these hours
whose whole notes billow
into the city’s concrete ventricles, debt plunged into debt
doesn’t find a seat for our damage, absence
inside and inside absence fists stressed muscles squeeze
you called your own in a trail
down plate-glass, diving to my second job
under the sun’s swelling yolk
in this drunk cask of lights, a herniated fabric where new bills grow
don’t let these letters see
don’t stop vomiting gold
Da Fugue Zone Vol #3 w/line from Xie Xiangnan
wheel of fog turning no fog or planet purple-red
riparian wedge regressing where
production soaks production in the middle of
a tense wheel turning mauve
jet does not soak production in the
middle of immunized money
dome stapled apples with
dimples rippled intaglio clamor amor or
phased dilation, wheels turn
fog glimpse through oxygen or metonymic ice
floe, this chain requires
the previous chain to say
I am not a chain, heavy upon no fog or
planet no
Da Fugue Zone #21: Vomiting Gold
flour mist floor transition woke the hell in me, vomiting gold and faith time
couldn’t touch you, vomiting gold, cask of stars and stalker baffling make-up, woke
each time wandering what am I doing, streaming mists, slack shifts, lurch
where did this gold come from, vomiting gold, it hurts
Da Fugue Zone #62: The Great Beyond
I’m glad the gas pump tv is fumbling with
my buttons today, no matter what it wants
I’m glad my damage is in a boat in 2014
and you are sliding in a turquoise lens down a snowy hill
I used to want to touch the engine
now I just want to sort the images
but I can’t take the gas pump w/me
can’t wait to see what it will say so I get on
Buffalo Free Rapid Transit, take a dim seat
between a boy, a fox, and a sack of grain and the train
tumbles through Buffalo’s ice and sudden fields
of winter corn, I see you on your bike w/yr yellow
hat turn left into a narrow street as the train leans
the other way and though I know the next brass landmark
that place that demanded this poem that began to be
is not real, that Buffalo Free Rapid Transit flickers
like a flashlight, almost spent, and the damage
is sinking, but is not sunk in a boat in 2014
in a body of water much like a mind
what has the gas pump asked you to do
in Da Fugue Zone #62
RESTING QUARTERS
could the sweet pill of the middle
note branch & you like a fountain splashing into the well
of yourself, I closed my eyes and tried to feel
the signal of the hand about to touch
my temple, this house
made of burdock, the cream of the root
this wound made of burdock
this wound, the miracle of endurance
skin pitted and drying against its seed
every night, the angel of thought
to follow a path shaped by footsteps alone
D in triplets, synth like woodwind
that’s where we saw them: in a round
bed of woodchips working but not really
you said you could feel my hand
resting on your belly
with all the notes, but not the order
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