Alex Bleecker – Three PoemsAlex Bleecker
the page is random. patterns
of repetition. recorded distortion. I listen
to the record over & over
on shuffle, change the same old
just to prove it. a coin’s cadence
dropping down hollow wooden stairs.
how glass works. mirrors
of the everglades. in a dream
I pluck orchid petals & eat them
with my grandma. each one a tile
of time itself, a piece of the fertile
gray middle. she and I hunt the flower
for its revealing nature
where there is light & dryness,
moist darkness, cool warmth.
we inspect for pureness of line,
color, balance, how much
it looks like butterflies. every time
you push a word off a cliff
you make a sylph. a fragment
of purelessness. we will not let her
blow it down. we spot a double-stem
for the price of one, then
we spot another. a family of four.
it is the impression a scent leaves
in the soft of my unconscious. I touch myself daily
with the beauty of a coincidence. apocryphalOxherding Theory
how the past was predicted, the future
a fabricable chaos.
the eye is where
a root & a nerve
& not where one is.
so much depends upon
the company they keep
having depth, being deep
& not where they are.
a vulnerable moment: the middle
of the night. thirty
fingers moaning loudly,
the clock strikes.
the moon swims
out of a cloud a bird
flies into a mirror: imagine:
once space has collapsed
no obstacles will remain.
implosion making equal(s)
(of dice & donkeys.) man’s piecemeal saviors.
can a snowflake survive
inside a burning flame?
a sea of sun. an ultraviolet undertow.Untitled
knowing edges, a process proven
after the math
developers will construct
with fantastic machines.
fell the walls
awash with secrets
scrawled green with the facts:
at risk. fixated on income,
driven priests empower the landscape
into real states
they can tax. déjà vu chess match
on a brooklyn corner where
I’d trapped one of my rooks
with the other. jets go up,
jets come down. a heron
the only bird capable
of swooping in, scarring,
& swindling me out of my senses.
with debris precision
she makes a nest of my intestines.
it’s not random & it’s not sloppy
on that canvas:
a square black outline
against a white background is
a cakewhite chalkline
on a blacktop backdrop.
soon the pavement will
be checkered. meanwhile,
hold private sessions
preach theories in a coded tongue, unseen
save by the muslin moon.
with a single drop
of poisoned pig’s blood
they preempt. a superatomic razor
slices into the eye
of the fabric.
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