I Cut All Sentiment


I cut all sentiment,

Stand on the platform, and

Do what cracker pride

Suggests: Make experience

Stack up, as if a ticket

Stub held substant proof

My heart was heavy-led,

Not gas, could not

In microseconds

Flare to colored plumes of nothing,

Its thin spare cinder

Dropped in gravel

Between  tracks that I debase,

Torched-off by light which not

Three hours before was warm

In hand

Of one who sparked

Up amid the din,

Lit the one-off that I left,

(A party raged.)

His eyes turned upward…


As if air were


Might flare

To nothing,

A whole building,


In an instant

GONE in the

Warp of blue

Like matchtip


Atomic shell…

Its atoms,

Seven hundred ravers



I speak of pride,

Composing man:

You are your muscles

And your memories,

The life a body


On bodies lived:

One, parties and two, tattoos,

His right foot and his

Left foot strut.


So do not think I stack up

My travels like old tickets,


Whose fired ash

Holds more grease than

Phoenix’ eggs,

More prone

To slipping stray

Than taking off

(No fortress

can be built from grease

Of what’s been burnt,

What blows),

Debris no base for

Catalogs of tip-toppling junk:


A Mug,

A pie,

A Prada pair

(They plot a


a car some Gucci

Bags, and

Eyes below

A sugar life,

A heart attack,

Porn of mortgage,

Grocery bills,

Laptops and the baby sat,

Broken sticks

Ikea flat…)

A rocking, bobbling

Buttressed junk

A fake Bastille,

(Its makers



For warmth in

Gold gold worlds,

Build fortresses of postcard pictures

Cities that their

Feet have touched,


Soles roughing flagstones

With each picture,

Face up to greet the palms

Of feet with glossy

Snaps of Jesus,

Golden ticket

In His peace-signed hand,

A promise of bourgeois


A defense

Against the lack.

Of counterpanes

Afloat in offing,

Soaked in Dead Sea’s


The future holds a plenty,

Salt enough to float

The body,



Made muscle-dense

By calling voices

Which stack up things

Til teacups

Touch a cloud,

Til shoulder,

Trapping the

Receiver to his ear,

Turns marble,

And he’s no

Man at all

But sinking



No man at all but

Old deaf rock,

Old dynamite,

A fuse an inch from sharp

Blue flame that

Splits him,

Sets free the ghost in

Keep, which anyway’s

A fiction

Without pride.


Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out /  Change )

Google photo

You are commenting using your Google account. Log Out /  Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )

Connecting to %s