Things That Shoot Up

I wrote these two poems in the summer of 2001.  
 
 *****
"
Things That Shoot Up"

heroine addicts, weeds; skyrockets, fireworks, bombs
bursting in air, oh-oh say can

you

see

all the things shooting up? billions of lasers climbing, shot from the
billions of fingers in the great wide open nothingness?
like the rain dreams of upside-down androids; a
computer-generated chaos that just can't stop organizing
itself.

no floating feathers, or gentle bobbing ships on waves that
elbow each other in jest in the ribs. just

BLAM!
BLAM!
BLAM
!
BLAM!
BWAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA! ribboning cyclones, a barber
snipping himself to the piling end, the cocaine sniff that
lasts a whole gracious slicing lifetime, the weed-infested
field plucked and plucked by children with A.D.D. forever,
BWAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA! but the clincher is BWAAAAAAAA!
BWAAAAAAAA! BWAAAAAAAA-HA-HA-HAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA!

*****

Um. What just happened? One more poem now. Or whatever these things are.

*****
"What the Bar Looks Like After Ten Drinks"

Bodies
advancing and retreating
bobbing and swiveling amongst
globes of gaseous gold and
planes of cloudy black.

Multifarious
human-made objects
discarded
in eerily recurrent complex
patterns: rectangles re-
ceding, circles
mushrooming in unharvested rows

a silent rainfall of heartbeats

a rolling murmur in the shape of a giant cube

cosmic calculus.

*****

Okay, I lied. One more. From that same era.

*****

"On Time"

Today, by its very length,
weighs twice as much as yesterday.

Each breath
(another debt to pay)
metes away the seconds slipping slowly,
slower, up

the


hill

to
blink

(finally) my sleep away;
to resume,
too willingly,
the morning, scrrraping across my back,
and I am stuck between the doubled day
and its Siamese twin
yesterday.

*****

Apparently, I was on some kind of mysticism/perception/experience kick back then.

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