kearney

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. wholeness 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. 2 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 bodiment 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. 3 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. every thing has been washed every 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 bcnt 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. 4 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 electric. 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. 6 when you know it for the first time it’s the heartbreak does it. knowledge has a withered hand. 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. 7 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 too. 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 dangles real is there trembling the fuckable life going rainy. 8 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. 9 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. blam. tow-row Stevenson says. follow me through the house I’ll show you everything. the haunted furniture. blam and woods are falling down to polished sea the end. 9 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 substantially. for these things loved one breathe your last with me in this hollow to come. I say what came to be was falling head. what the fuck do you say? hey. Chloe. really. call me in the morning. 10 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. 11 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 hearth. landscape book and sobbing. clap it shut the clap is a venereal disease. who cares. go home. thunder make me bones to wear. 12 on a gunmetal sky. rising stars as colander. thank you. keep my word and endless life. 13 when the thunder stops wait for the next lightning. dayadham em bodiment.

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