I've become a vat of oil, a carburetor burning in the belly of an open and arid field.
The measure of time has become a tangible composition of flesh
whose loss would equal the chaos I have surrendered.
Every day the papers say there is a Crisis.
and they're all vying for something terrible or brilliant
to end the dullness of this unvarying spiral down the charts.
My belly sags under the new weight of seeing time
with this self inflicted idleness.
And I worry but not enough to feel anything beyond the dwarf star I have openly embraced
as the vacancy increases under the rim of my behavior, my erratic and ever new ways.
I have consumed.
Something crazy like
using my hydrogen atoms
to question your sexual preference.
of Tour Eiffel significance
from the Elements Table
does not Equal Napoleon.
No such intention, sincerely do I have.
The declaration of the Exact
as the Baroque of Truth is
an aesthetic utopia Hawkins
would think illogical and irrelevant.
to raise like a phoenix
4th of July L.A.
You are a porcelain bauble with the functions of a rubix cube,
and so, I can't imagine you reading a book.
In Los Feliz and Hollywood they fill with flavored coffees and long slick energy drinks
caffeine and taurine of assembly lines
that churn out in the small intestine of the mind, celluloid excretions
altogether unconnected to a nature,
they do not have.
The corpulent Mexicans laying near the aftermath of brunches on Sundays at Port-of-Call;
the sweat that forms under their creased skin is more honorable.
A congregation of prokaryote on the apartment roof of summer parties
are budding and conversing with each other, thus unto themselves
on the topic of the pus they excue.
At the Farmer's market and Grove, on Fairfax and 3rd
the Korean and Japanese men are strolling with their
women, whom are guards of a forbidden city.
These men are not boastful, or lively, or sick with bitterness
nor wear any other masque,
they are already entirely beautiful and inexplicable.
Alien and distant,
the faces I cannot reach out and touch
and the words which cannot be spoken
are the oceans that separate them and
I who always take the Eastern route across Europe.
And if their eyes meet mine, these strangers of strangers,
it is only a phrase on a postcard in a language
I cannot read.
Silvia Jackman lives in Rome, her body temporarily transported to L.A and prefers the company of cats and dolphins from that of most heterosexual individuals.