Multum in Parvo

30 May: Multum in Parvo


go into darkness without questions
away from light
from lozenge red
clouded by 6 A.M. blue
from boarding-time blue
stay within that coziness
of Kalamazoo book lounges
in the shade of altitudes
gridlocked on cities’ frozen lakes
unseen from the driver’s seat
pilot doesn’t know when to stop

must trust brain plane plateaus
or pilot levels
at 30,000
or 3,000

comfortable cloud tops ripple
like dog or octopus head
exploding in mouth
though dog is metaphor
like painted mountain tops
or Bukowski at a Mexican bar
explaining himself

One-Week Dean

30 May: One-Week Dean

You hombres’d like to know maybe or, rather, I’d like to tell you of a pale whoreboy by the Texaco, like the last chocolate – he’s long been travelling, he says, the capillaries of the nation.

Leather-Jacket-Right-On-Own-Skin type this fallen, fallen, three times fallen James Dean; jacket’s unzipped, door ajar & straight into his ivory (also, Marlboros for fireplace).


22 May: Transcontinental

I like the idea that the West is still working
while the East that never sleeps
has long been tilted into darkness

Just as it once struck me to have ‘Karma’
So euphoniously explained as
‘The universal law of cause and effect.’

Some words. Like rich ink poured in your ear,
They stay. When I land back on my feet

And get a glimpse of ripe fruit fallen from trees uneaten,
overripe, I think, ‘no waste there, really’

And yet, I cringe to see expired groceries in the fridge
And still think nothing of leaving the dishes in the sink overnight,
Some distorted expression of my mental state as I fill my bag for traveling.


21 May: The Key

I’ve come to Rome for salvation. It’s become fashionable—menopausal women attempting to recapture a fictional youth, American co-eds exploring their sexual ferocity, fountain fucking with unobtainable women born of the Cinecitta.

The eternal city has a way of showing you how much you’ve changed because it never does. Many years earlier, I’d lived steps away from the Vatican. It’s incredible that something so small has so much power, like a little pope-sized battery. Prayer carried on the torrential Roman winds and slithered straight through my window. Sometimes I pretended it was my own.

The other reason I’ve come is to find an Italian girl named Marianna I met several years back in New York. Our affair had lasted three days: the first on a rooftop bar at sunset where we drank tall glasses of Campari, the second watching Grucci fireworks on the Williamsburg Bridge in the rain. The third day, at my apartment, I presented her with a necklace that she’d admired in passing. Overwhelmed by this gesture, Marianna declared that she couldn’t make love with me. That it would be too sad. I never knew what her body felt like. Consider this my opportunity to alter the past.


13 Apr: Interference

1855: the year Dr. Livingston became the first European to set eyes upon the waterfalls he would subsequently christen after his illustrious Queen. The same year British North American backwater Bytown was renamed Ottawa, inching up to a declaration of Capital. The year Central Park in New York City was orchestrated, landscaped, and constructed. The world did not yet exist in photographs.

The colonial mind of Dr. Livingston, concluding that anything not witnessed by Europeans sat nameless, awaiting. A man of his time.

More than half a century later, from the rubble of the First Great War, the British bully who forced a hard line in the sand through the nomadic tribes, and arbitrarily defined the Saudi Arabian border against Iraq. A border held, but never stable.

Upon a mound of bodies is no foundation for a moral high ground.

He writes in his notebook: at times I try to fabricate a memory.