from LINTHEAD STOMP
I did not remember my uncle he was a suitable dead in his keeling cloak.
The lake deep within his sanctums the craveling tooth with which he gilded my dog’s brain still long and carving and tessellated with its fanciful extrusions.
He crafted that mouth with the help of God and knives and guns and black salt.
Gome of province and dry chimney in the almost empty.
Whistlespoke assbeat relations.
Underneath stupid cowlick monotone falconer.
Backfired into every raging spring and roil into my brain safinning every raging spring.
We loved you abomination loved you all in the system relational of medicinal advices and joiner’s mallets and scripts recursing alleged bloods.
RUBBING IS RACING AND RACING IS MEANINGLESS.
Vose retames of rede flek hold down the may.
I caucate to ethemize there is a dumissent lopability in tre mansole hap’d and to sacquint some mertle slossa tar desmined a shard.
I did your momma two three four five six seven eight nine times.
Horped the cooling night.
Lace ruffle of cirrus cloud in sky.
Now we can run the numbers.
Now we can open the business to everyday Americans who let’s face it compared to lots of others are chronically recessed about the loins.
The innocence project pinned a butterfly to my forehead.
My sexual mocheen ran out of gauming fluid.
It was that kind of day atop dog mountain.
All the dogs turned into snakes and hissed from beneath the stones that Uncle Lordy placed to shade them from the intubated sun in this intubated galaxy.
After the cock.
After the flood.
After the instrument of exegesis.
After scrawny-necked digital hooligans.
After rain-catchment systems.
After serving many years as a receptacle for cadmium and lead and asbestos Filch decided to incinerate others. He felt he deserved this power. In the cauliflower orange explosions he saw gargoyles riddle the sky he saw his uncompromised mother and his father’s sighing plectrum riddle the sky. He had shoveled obsidian poison in the pit. He had taken the metal splinters as the lower register wounds of another savior. An entire vending machine filled with various kinds of Goody Powder. Who puts the poor mouthed dog in your dog mouth, child. He dreamed he was an invisible girl walking on the sun. Then he got put into a Maurice Manning poem and had to tell a long ass story about a one-eyed horse, a wringer washer, a cultural insurgent (insurance salesman), and a Morgan Freeman character, imbued as they are with the special wisdoms. Did everyone think the football was a pumpkin? Did everyone call a lynx a souped up wildcat? Everyone in the bookstore in Providence, Rhode Island started to laugh. Production work filled him with sadness and anger. The sky god leaks hegemony all the time.
I ate 19 carpations at the moment of sunset.
I was trying to tune my life to the transistor weird of the pluriverse.
Diseases hover over me like transit cars.
I craved culturally dense and evocative apparati.
The native rookery carved from kidneys.
A rut reduced the trifling glower to infinite pause.
As she led me to a litany of squandered trails a deer burst from the brush. We approached the well-groomed terminus and hid our love away. My advice is to kill the monsters before they are fully transcribed before they illumine the chambers where we have placed them. I am participating in a way of life with which I am not totally comfortable. My mono is old but will get up on you. Memory upon memory fuck in the closet. I am interested only in tendrils and down. I am interested only in deficient antlers and bird shit hocking up the eaves. The quiet country? Correct. The wash of red mud in the spring? Correct. Old sheds leaning into their sighs? Correct. The seductive paternalism of big papa’s jowl? Correct. I invested all my sun and fire into an isolated image aspirating beyond available forms of recognition and closure. One by one our bottles of hairspray went missing. The oneiric home spiraled to encapsulate a wide variety of pallbearers’ suits and devalued our wounds. The inhuman evil that dwelt within Walker’s Furnace Repair will never vanish. One minute we were joking about the kudzu shortage and the next minute we were engaged in class warfare. It was impossible to identify anyone yonder goes Cleophus Ralph said but it was Loy yonder goes Loy Loy said but it was Shine or Little Red. Everyone wanted the last word on Jesus’s intentions. I saw the superintendent become lost in piratical mist and thought to praise the infernal bellow that I sometimes heard in the night. I have been addicted. I have been manic past the true cost of knowing. Many of our instruments are obsolete. The cost of imagining I possess a form of humanity is obsolete. Lupercalia as lexicon. Loy said we made the mistake of purging all the evil all the fertility in a single evening. I do not remember any of your daddy’s guns or any of your daddy’s fires. I am sure your daddy existed. I do not know where to go in all this culture. There are no more stories to tell. The world is a bunch of letters that do not make a word. The sun is also nonsense, but at least it’s real. Now the things I need to say to you no longer exist. We wagged our tongues until we pulled them out, but I am sure that’s not it. Ralph said let us withdraw and defer to the great almighty stammer. No one came to nail Little Red to a tree though that was all he ever wanted. The trees shook, sentient fingers counting themselves into the sum of the river, but that’s as far as it went. I have winnowed my speech into four maladaptive phrases that serve to incite those I wish least to incite. There is no hill stomp apotheosis to coordinate. Ralph cultivated a legion of nightcrawlers in a five gallon bucket. Cleophus sang to hornets his finger was a gladius his lyrical sequencing pure derelict pheromone and innuendo. A concatenation of rabbits. Bats without hats. Plowed or tilled the field. Shelled them peas to Galilee. Snapped beans until I had to pee. Canned that chow chow until I didn’t know how how. Shoveled shit out of the dog’s pen did it again. Unearthed taters plucked maters was my older brother’s primary aggravator. Ran and ran. Mowed the grass until I ran out of gas. Cranked the churn until the Nehi ice cream was good and done. Dug a new water line to get rid of the brine. Oiled my glove. Pulled weeds the original deed. Turned over logs to find little frogs. Buried the cat that had eaten a rat. Hid my sins and wrecked my Schwinn. Dug up worms covered with sperm. I blew the whiskers off ever single dandelion ever single one a thralling of dandelions beneath the hunger of thunder it was fun. Labritorium of essential disguises. Dirty shirt in closet rerouted porcupine. What appears ludicrous may be the reanimate torturings of collective ill will. Weapon discarded prior to the novel proper. Colossal rain all the animals are slickery tonight golem composed of dourmud and lightning may arise. Everyone has terrorized another person’s canticles at some point. The force of his comic scenes diminished over time. I have a nebula on this shoulder. A lobster on this shoulder. A deadened rhetoric on this one. A trusted paramour on this one. I have more than my allotted complement of shoulders in the folly of time. Linked to delinquent sequence. Anxiety of retention. Anxiety of collapse. Expulsive solar magnet weds me only to myself. In my peripheral vision light became the heiress of salvation. We did everything we could do to break them but instead of declensing wails or frantic shadow puppets we came face to face with the gleam of martyrdom. I only know how to speech act thanks to the arsons of bony-faced sociopaths. Donny threatened to shoot himself during the pine cone’s extended soliloquy. Absurdism is romanticism’s terminal menagerie. I won several bass tournaments with my icthyological impressions. I lived beneath the welcome mat and made a treasure map of my sores. I am more of a small pond kind of talking bird and mid-level managers despise me. Script dysplasia and the rummaging dogs only rummage through the piles of dead goldfish and coffee grains we provide them. Dear enthusiastic wormhole. Sidelonging adventure quest with highly masculine tentpoles. Ruminous disliquid informs the walker tethered to memory in the Lake District. LITHIUM ME was a luminol slug. I thought in the conversational style of a terrarium bound American and parsed out my living among the exacting ministries of professional white persons. And then there was the time I tried to swallow my accent and spit theory. And then there was the time I thought the winging experiments were the directive of the creator. But then the wild horses inside everyone’s kidneys decided to neigh on. I moved my things politely from ESTABLISHMENT A into a isolutory potter’s globule of INSISTENT GRASS and abscessed grace. A tottertoy reamed the expanse. I’ve driven Filch’s meth down to Henrietta I’ve driven Filch’s meth down to Avondale I’ve driven Filch’s meth down to Caroleen I was pretty sure of what I was doing. Aortic sun pillories our adepts. Ernest however was pleased with his “suture of becoming.” On the way back from the well I encountered a bear. It said I am a sordid bear. I am a peculiar comma marking the hinge of your existence. The river is always behind me. Sunshine is a spot of sod inside my brain. Oak leaves would make for you a most excellent costume. I consume berries and ants with an orgiastic pleasure unknown to other bears. I can outmanure any gun that was ever made. What a delicious bear. O the difference this has made.
Or the way I processed time changed.
Or my body changed and I can hear always in its creakings O Susannah will not you cry for me with your hoodlum face.
The onanist may be redeemed via skylark pitchings and Vitamin D.
Filch changed his name to Magnifique and assumed the bright white shirt of the recovering alcoholic and the bow tie of the gentleman planter and the posture of well I do suppose and hoped this would be enough to convince the others he did not feel quite like a weapon without his weapon.
MY WINDPIPE, MY SWEET WET PET.
One night is a dislocated slurry of featureless decades.
One night is a cautery learned from a machine and recalibrated to human institch and mighty wherevers.
Light flows up the bare trees and then the sun goes down.
Royal crown hair dressing.
Royal crown hair dressing.
GASTONIA 1929 DON’T FORGET NOW.
Dysteria in the fillet wires and the first drink its own thriving cultured imaginative faltering, it raises up a spring, fawning webs, murk of generations and yellow death bed. My uncle’s belly turnt out filled with parasitic fish. Forfeited and wood-paneled lungs. When I was five he put a rifle in my hands it was hard to lift imperial rigid snake I found my mother in its scope rounding the corner of the trailer raising a special kind of hell later he made me euthanize with a rawhide hammer a kitten he had backed over in his truck forced me to fight my cousins how to close a fist and wail how to not let up when you got somebody on the ground he shit in the doberman’s pen he shit in the middle of the yard he’d shove two giant fingers inside your asshole to abrogate salvation. I am engaging in radical self-care. I am filling my uncle’s corpse with asbestos and green cum stolen from the pastoral market. I am feeding the chickens seven dust. I am rainsing my strangled puerile member with Roundup. Flower yanked into your hair in the wild engine of tomorrow is the extent of my disguise. I was dressed for an extraordinary day inside my house. Halfway submerged in the trellised excrement of wood worms I dreamed of cocaine and recess, a supraimposition of such and such hour upon my feathery legs, coordinated reproductions of systemic abuse, fealty to nullification. I have become PURE SPIRIT and BELLIED MOON AXE and the WEIGHT OF EVERY TOOTH. Pickerling is earnestly manifold. Multifractal mouse eggs. Irradiated sousaphone myths. I am dumb as a fuck lip yet highly active. The industrialist and the loom have composed for me fields of the slickest shit for my delectations and parsings. A white balloon filled with delusional whiteness was slipped inside my anus at birth. It granteth me trees. It granteth me bears to ride upon. It granteth me glocks and grenades. At the whiskey turnstyle I impregnated all my skinny cousins. I pulled the old clawfoot tub into the yard and filled it with Spam and the insides of Donny Breelander’s head. I drew a breath so singular that it destroyed (yaaas!) the universe, all the feelings. I deserve only this. I armoured my heart in the identities of bird bills and the infinite corpse of a dog and kept telling everyone the devil is within you why as dawn spreads the river is disintegrating behind the blood hoof leaning house the peregrine sick worm room of his man crimes pray portal of assigned prey yes friends the devil is within you.
Citizen portume the sandwich.
Citizen die in creek gulley.
Citizen float among the trees.
Citizen sit at the table with salt and watch me eat.
Citizen drive one of many cars.
Citizen receive fistula glue and can review the bluebird again.
Citizen is a coolness without destination.
Citizen choose wine over the green rushes.
Citizen hair flutter wildly near hemline of dusky river.
Citizen O citizen.
My earthly estate is the shivering floor rag of a mosquito on a string. My neurotransmitters keep getting tarted up. I left the yard and made my way toward the ritual declension of horse into fire into mud into disco into skyscraper into planets spooked from their orbits and it was the vigils that deceased us and the desideration of unfamiliar skins that strengthened familial bonds in the face of polished skeletons and the rainbow abyss. Blood lyrics nested within an upbeat chorus. Redeye gravy is moral salve. I hold the body in the mouth of my mouth of my mouth is a thing that poets say. Tammy thinks I am just a regular white person. I torment animals and then move about the neighborhood as the moon carves this juvenile season into my back.
Witness is suborned to the irradiated factory ensemble.
He could sing a widget with his wolf paws and rabid unraveling.
It all unravels this meadow costumed with grace.
The earth felt solid earlier in the week.
I go into the garage to be with my rakes and the smell of gasoline.
Mood is the inculcation of ears that may barely reach you.
Mood is the color of sallow grass.
Mood is the not there of tomorrow and everyone beating off, June air, white fire, hidey holes.
Carving failure of wavery spine.
Mood separates watching the sun from eating the vole.
I enclose all the blood in an emergent highly placed village of leastwise crows.
I keep saying bird or jackdaw hoping my pancreatic will explode.
Mood is the town the future covets.
The tilth much resembled our spiritual lives. Only demi-sauvage I knew was the preacher and he thought you could backslide in a single flare of thought and be lost forever. I have observed in you the trait of puritanical rigidity. My muff distributed beneath everyone’s toenails. My favorite cage was my cage I only cleaned the others mine had a rug and a defunct plasma light and aluminum pan with leafiest water in it. Underwater guitar sounds precious and urbane. I performed minor tasks at the agency I performed minor repairs to the meat cooler I made minor adjustments to my sexual technique but when I found myself alone in an antiquarium with all that history well that’s when I really showed myself but no gun no audience meant no absorption into normative habitry and then thank you for the abundance and fascist-romantic displays of pinwheels and the honeyed imagination and the first suture as grave and I warrant the bitterest tongue declined an intercourse of equality each receding hill an instance of negation a deprived language constructs a master glib-grace a cutpurse in bolus and afterfire. To have selfhood I must possess identities that erase selves and when I run out of selves must purloin other selves and to have a voice I must be a thing and being a thing swallows my voice to swallow I must cut every other throat and then a landslide of butterflies exemption burden command.
The remonstrance of her eyes dim the porch light with flies that disinfect the succor.
With vervain in the banjo strang.
With vervain in all the furrows the invariable sleep of amnesty hours.
Then I die and then I wake and then I follow the ancestor’s rullets.
This pattern fuck my countryside so hard there is nothing left but the blind post, the lunar thunderstorm, the eyes half-notes of blood, the blood all in them.
THE INTERRUPTION BROUGHT FORTH A GREAT DREAD.
Because beauty. It was like that. #14 will make you shit your pants and suck your own cock. In a mad world the mad are truly mad. In any room you constituted an exhaustive parabola of feathers. Sensation increases with proximity to the financial centers. I remember my old awkward psychological m ake-up before the exhumation. I smelled kobolds in the dungeon and the disco light exploded. You said I was more aperitif than radiance. I did not find a single strand of your hair amidst my possessions. Flash of fish scale enough to die for perhaps sweetness precedes and follows convulsion. Blood is forgiven. We left no virgin spaces. A late dispensation of skeletal shock forces encircled and saved our bower from subterranean animalities. I tried to thank the higher Medical Cowl the Stippled Fortune of the swankhill contours for this unexpected fortune. Mastery feasts on skin in the vape hollow of textual mezzanines also world of sweet strangers eat my pinafore. Toy dog has stinky breath sings at my knee a coliseum of rat killing inside his miggy brains. The light coils the meats are irresistible in the favored scriptures I was obliged to burn with you. A PARASITE IS A TRICK IS PERHAPS A TRUSTED DEFENDER. Our days spaced out in green plots amid larger rabidities. The rooms walked for you. The rooms walked toward you.
Red-dark, bloom fisted, rain hearts illegible and raptured, only a quivering horse god would make a detaunted lump where the squash grows.
Only a quivering horse god could eat inn and steeple and reeds and nary, severance monsters gadded up with mouths of smoke and fine intents.
A TEMPLAR NAMED TELEVISION TOURS THE FORCE OF IGNOBLE DRONES.
The picaresque gloamship has been overtaken.
Vulpine quasars tot shamelessly through the universe.
The captives can only gaze into the emissive, insectoid eyes of their alien torturers.
Outerspace contains no turkles and rarely ever did.
The musical tones generated by their heliotropic speculums invoke an ancient netherspace, afore memory, untouched by gadgetry, untouched by the experiments of winespoon gods.
The hearts of the captives are naked.
We fly, aglasmiated, toward the edge of dust.
Inside the bellies of the aliens are lots of other tiny, pucker-mouthed aliens.
I withdraw from the bridge and suck for a long time on my nebula.
Each entwined flourish is a beginning, middle, and end and respects intermittent delirious wails but refuses to capitulate to them. Every trailer was its own seed box, its own charnel house, its own glorious mutation, its own river depthless and bottomless, its own water park, its own weather vane in grim aspect, its own Jesus cultivating a greenhouse and listening to the gentle pop of Magic 95.7, its own sexual bullet, its own fashionate echo of ancestral grimwail a bolly bolt bollocks in the speared gum like a fishwife like a massive husband cursed with gummococcus, its own adjudicative institution, its own hellish mead, its own extruded BIRD song, its own spare face, its own gulleted subvocal, its own rattling livery, its own carburetor damnation, its own secret compartment in endless space, its own Daddy washing down its roof with a hose. Was it like this also in the suburbs forsooth Rhett. Was it like this also on the urban squalorways and glamways forsooth windpipe abscess. HEAVEN IS A PRISON FOR ANIMALS. I was born with an extra set of teeth.
TIM EARLEY has written four books of poems, including Poems Descriptive of Rural Life and Scenery (Horse Less Press, 2014) and Linthead Stomp (forthcoming in December 2016 from Horse Less). He lives in Denver with his partner, the poet Jessica Comola, and teaches online courses in literature and creative writing for the University of Mississippi.