Larry Kearney

thunder doubled

nothing but the sudden of thunder in the early
room. things get their faces washed.

thunder is my smile now.
know the real

in loud. a swoop of rain
comes like coming.

and there I was and then
I wasn’t. and every thing

is washed to bright
in sullen light. the livid

drained of blood. storm.
as always there are no

words but the simple. the triple.
shut my fucking head down.

I’ll tell you three times
in the shade of this

flowering half-life.

broken. the offering-up
of coolnesses of scrubbed

faces. stone to pond
to dragonfly.

crack myself up. sure.
choose the thunder. read ’em

and weep. come to the light
of your own soul and know it.

tossed like a street through the clouds.
over the street.

one big split and all
goes streaming each to each.

hold the sheet
by corners snap it

wild the trees and cars and heads
go tumbling down the tilted.

as all the tilts were sudden
ways to fall. each one other

to accuracy. to
the way things are. the way.


of all things least
in or of time

is the thunder. in the high
country empire three horses

turn their heads.
but not so fast the whole this morning

broke up truth in air.
made me smile

and always thus. the fannable
revolver. the thumb of the un-

seeing. holy ghost of sudden in
the abandoned heavens

the minds.
one great tongue of Babel come

to feel itself and lick the footlights.
the thunder breaks

and leaves the sweet high air the meaning
meant. the body meant.

dayadham. em

on the kitchen stairs. what
else can be offered?

time out of time. desire
out of crackerjacks.

there was a little
sailor boy of metal made and standing

firm to wind. the thunder came.
and how it was

the words were heard
in nowhere as

he bounced and found
a place in which

to be and breathe and die
his own odd metal death.


washed of cow’s eye. bright as was
meant by the river.

gray in the tumbled
sky and wet

as wet can be.
in the high country empire

three wild horses
bearing with eyes.

get your bearings here. red
hot bearings.

thing has been washed

thing is another

thing’s real. dayadham.
a street with a dimmish

candy store rainy
light and the heart of the knowing.

a sequence of faces to pass in the streetlights.
a certainty in thunder

thundering. this must be the place.
the extended metaphor is everywhere

but here. blam.
the lid falls on the old phonograph. the music jumps.

the singer rises postage-stamped
to present and

every timeless head goes rolling.
every pasted heart

is flat on the great
lumbering bear of the juggled stars.

the ecstatic. the seen sound thumb-nail
slicing moon

and all the same the rolling things
and true. too. the bookmark. one

true thing in a wilderness
of pained jokers.

paned. the thundering panes
where the rain hits later

the heads at the windows. the jokers

by the educated finger.
in ’52

I was nine. the thunder sometimes
let me breathe then. as today the fine high scent

of eros. angel meaning
as meant. the man

with the blue guitar rises and all around him
are bees and the eyes of the bees and the cees.

give him a break. he’s
tired as coal. ripe as the glass

in the automat window.
tattered as book.

and of smoke.


thunder is not a metaphor here
or anywhere else. the thunder

is a record of thought.
the uttered once

removed. the uddered.
paint dots the sky.

angel baby widdershins
and diction.

big bad noise
and rust alive

bobbing duck for grownups

two. the bathtub
raised to grace of lissome

Jamie. voice her name
and hang back. lest.

widdershins. I
cut your all one-neck.


when you know it for the first time
it’s the heartbreak

does it. knowledge has a withered

above the river
is the shell

and outside the shell is
an eye and the eye

is a number beyond
imagining. as one

is. all these broken
things my son

are pieces
of the traveling sky.

the maidenheads of waltz.
the written-

on buttons. wouldn’t you know
how the spring just smells

of the meadow where death is
the flowers? here’s one finger

here’s one toe
and here’s the head

goes moaning low. there
is nothing else to address.

nothing. write your name
on all your parts

then look in the mirror.
hello there.

that which is beyond imagining
is the real. that which only

comes at the break. never
heard anything more beautiful. more

than that. the sign
at the end of.

where all of us stand
with the other guy.

rain-streaked glasses
at the side of the wet grave.


thunder break me
all to hell

but flying through
and lost in shapes and nested

striations. every thing
has nowhere shape

but for desire.
it wants to be. and will

but won’t stay attached.
the palace of memory

falling snow of mirrors.

one way
this way

that way

which way
are you going now?

this way says
the thunder come

to play. where the line
passes through the mirror

thunder is made. where the soul

real is there trembling
the fuckable life



the thunder makes no distinctions
and hollow..

a list of things about the thunder. it
says better than.

it eats geometry. it
rolls till it’s finished then

licks itself. it’s
a bumbling child attached

by one hand to the ball
of the lightning.

one step down and when
to learn to do it one

foot after the other the thunder
falls down the stairs behind you.

these are not conceits. say they are I’ll fucking
rip your ears off.

some other mother
puts her head on the table.


cracks and reforms and bursts in the violet air.
when the gas exploded the ghosts disappeared.

not a minute too soon. were there a picture postcard you’d see
how the thunder came to be

an assemblage of minds made
of glass. rubbing the glass

through the hair. steps up the mountain

and blam again.

tow-row Stevenson says. follow me through
the house I’ll show you

everything. the haunted

and woods are falling down

to polished sea
the end.


when you get stuck writing
the end it’s a long day

too. only the thunder
has made any sense. never common. no

matter how many times never
common. let me put my fingers here

in voice. where
the coil fries the air there are perfect

lines of orange in
the palest green.

the trees
saved my life in the spring.

the thunder fed them

for these things
loved one

breathe your last with me in this
hollow to come.

say what came to be was falling

head. what the fuck
do you say?

hey. Chloe. really.
call me in the morning.


the thunder indicates
a massive discharge of energy in

the near vicinity. the whorls
of the fingerprint. that’s

how it sounds in
the ink. clear lines rolling

in billows. way down the valley
the shudder of yews and

of cypress kinds
of black.


a clash of symbols.
revolved and spit out

by the thunder
the mage. as if were poppies

here to there
I walk these falling landscapes quickly

seen then un. the circus
fire twirls on falling card. the clown

with smoke dark
bucket. there

are bright blue airs and
bright white airs

understood. lines and blocks of
disassemble. smokestack

breaking water.
all across

the curve the stitched
towns and blankets sick

child in love with the leaves
on the substitute

tree in the substitute
meadow. thirteen

ways of looking at a staircase.
up down and eleven.

sweet surcease and bag of stolen
wool. baaaa.

I don’t want this lane no more
they think they know me.

thunder rumbles.
smoke flaps off

the no-roof

landscape book and sobbing.
clap it shut

the clap
is a venereal disease. who

go home.

thunder make me
bones to wear.


on a gunmetal sky.

stars as colander. thank
you. keep

my word and endless


when the thunder stops
wait for the next

lightning. dayadham em

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