things of august

locust cricket day and night 
locust cricket laser lyre for ambit's
whose every new and every old and new
go there, and go beside the pure August fountain
ghost fountain telescope ruin flashing violet
photographs of sunspots across the low sloping mountains
flower or spirit sex the tattooed women are shooting movies
in Kaneohe Bay the men are serving tea, hiding their piercings
great wave is new wave a solid ground key black egg eye sparling
kheops blue dolphin skinned locust lyre of pure august fountain saying
anything mustache, or digital watch, high poetry, or get high poetry
or the low perihelions of squash among the blissful cabins
or the sleepwalkers jazzed in penumbra of summer nights
Persephone Dooley returned to Camp Pi Ling with hairy
tamarind fungus in her synthetic braid locust pianos
a crack round the dome of an old ghost story
gone to pasture among camphor sails

The ships that sail the Southern seas and southward are like houses.
When their sails are spread they are like great clouds in the sky.
Chin Chhu-fei is tattooed by an African woman. The Zanj
have no ships of their own; but they use the ships of Oman
to reach the great corpse of Wallace Stevens, the lily pollution
round the great cracked skull of August, the pure fountain,
around which traders of the Indian Ocean tells stories
of lost and ancient cities, Sheba's cities, Barbosa's voyage.
Solemn sentences intone the cricket nights' peace
to the last intelligence, surveillance, a veil
over all, mistaken world of objects, mistaken world,
the sad smell of rapturous arrogant elementals
its own self made rich to the blank egg beast
of music, perhaps parental love, like the pure
August ghost fountain is a wild stone pen,
a head in the air full of locust guitars?





What rosier odor spoke Nahuatl drinking yolatl?
What grimy Tarascans? What dirty Tolucans?
Beyond the Valley of Toluca, Patzcuaro
bleeds blue phizz over donkey melons
in the sea spume. The bloody joyous
Tarascans are tattooed women making
locust movies by the blank tall pure fountain
of sunspots, of August, no crickets cry,
for pesticide, and West Nile vy~
O words are always an altering ego
to sails of eggs unfurled in August
Toluca Toluca to look askance
As they say, we do not dwell in truth
nor in truth did we come to tarry on earth
Oh, I must leave the gorgeous flowers
I must go down to the video rental store again
I must seek what lies beyond patented narrative patterns
All beautiful songs are but a loan, from a pure
August ghost fountain full of Mexican rabbits
of Ehecatl, the Once-And-For-All Gift
We are the sissy rulers of Texcoco and Tacuba
getting upbraided by this asshole again.
Maybe Mel Bochner will cover the screen
with shaving cream. Maybe Mel Bochner
will Remember the Alamo in Alamut
where the things of August take a summer walk
chanting as in ancient Thailand where Boonmi
entered the Mediterranean world of thinking
where hands of light twirl a gemstone locust laser lyre crown
or some shit, a new text of the world,
secret robot jade scorpions dancing in unison
with transparent university peers in high collared tattoos,
el hijo, are you of the faculty of the exceptional,
I am twisting bones among sky skins
my particles are all forgetfulness and spring
not this hot August war council of blank pure fountains
of transparent parks and whinnying cameras.

My position was wrong.
No matter what.