 Robin Wyatt Dunn lives in a state of desperation engineered by late capitalism, within which his mind is a mere subset of a much larger hallucination wherein men are machines, machines are men, and the world and everything in it are mere dreams whose eddies and currents poets can channel briefly but cannot control. Perhaps it goes without saying that he lives in Los Angeles. it's underneath everything each moment barnacles scraping the sky you and I mirrors of the void hold me tight for the star and for the dart over the board hold me tight for the sword at my throat and hold me tight for the entropy within my bark over the night *** give me everything the sky and the void give me the truth *** these days it's hard to make a living hard to make a killing even everyone keeps crawling out of the grave stumbling drunk and pissed off unable to find a doctor or a home me, I keep fighting the good fight with the coffee percolator putting it in turning it on and watching the water quality drop me, I keep my eye on the sky where we have written clouds these words are gods, small and delightful agents from another planet planet history planet quark whose mustard gas is a mild fart whose righteousness is only mild indigestion and whose rutabagas shine in the sun come in to the shadow of my evening glasses we are making coffee this tree is my friend *** it's enough the stalwart weight of my bones and the sound of talking some startled some weeping some laughing in the evening when I was a boy voices were like planets moving over my head now they are like birds on my shoulders *** these times fall over my head in encephalitic bliss slow and fine tinkling wine a sledgehammer made out of years place the rack back on the bun and sun the fanny till it's done she's got a lot to let out from her gout and her earnest narrative of the people's escape from slavery these times imprison well with the ludicrous swell of the gun of the stars firing the earth into space firing the brain to the hands firing the words to the year *** Now, I must lie to you Though the lie is also the truth. The limits of my range are showing Forty meters hereabouts A certain oven Overhang Strand of trees Some water The chipmunk. No one hereabouts hovers right On the right side Near the exit From the cave It's all one thing, of course I'd be lying--and I am-- If I said there were clear distinctions Marks on the path to tell you where to go A feeling in the bones to mark the perturbation In the stillness of thought But still: Haven't you seen me somewhere before? I thought I knew you too When I saw you walking. *** so shine me on in this bare moonlight whose essence is the sun over you and in your eyes shine me on over the dark whose essence is your soul liquid and fire rambunctious and afraid shine me on into the fire whose name is my own older than me older than the rocks *** each life makes a heart whose circumference circles the void steepled and shaped over the aeon ravaged cursus of you whose hue rouges the lime light of yous prosody or war striking the tent and moving over the light *** Prison, prison prison Prisoner, prisoner Prison my prisoner My prisoner Prisoner! Prison once meant "prize" Hold it in your hands This beautiful thing Shiny Noble Astonishing Concrete and blood This prize Earns rewards Earns friends It keeps you awake at night it sleeps under your bed It marches centuries like water This prize Beacons This mark over your eye I am your prisoner I am your prison *** the right goes up and down spinning thread making sounds over my back, fine wires sketch other sounds: years and years. Everything I want is far away, And all that's near is so dear I fear it; Why should I love these simple things so easily taken away? What is it I've been listening to, Since I was a boy? *** bent right our reaver smokes the grave craving gravity some theater or the nearness of now some headache or music the bastion of the sky flirting with events rash and diligent exploding colors over the mast of the forest whose barren burden deer or birds blacken the midnight of their passing enrichment inside the snow-filled winter filled with the blessing of agony minutes mirror over the roof where he stares at me ears flipping our reaver banes and bones the back and brain bullets and graves pull the curtain and declare the voice god and your arms props run into the snow *** For Roberto Bolano Poets chew on my balls And climb over my back Swing from my hair Dangle over my grave. The poets are watching the sky To see what is written on it And they are playing basketball, with a telephone. Poets have come over to stay in my house. They have found the food, and are cooking it, on the roof. They will not give me any of it. Also, they are reading my books and are complaining. The poets are angry about reality It is not conforming to their expectations. Some of them make love in the doorway, To prove that reality is wrong. One of them is beautiful, a woman. She will not look at me. Over in the clouds the poets have parked a judicial system Complete with a god and a justice of the peace But no jail They take turns being the prosecutor and the convicted Wearing the haloes. In the kitchen, They have begun to smoke marihuana, And talk about sunsets. Sunsets are boring, they say. And they nod, sagely. I do not want to say goodbye to the poets so I invite them to stay at my house, even though we have run out of food. The socialists have pointed out that the state should have provided food for us; most of us agree except for Jose, who points out it is immoral to eat food. We agree with him also. Outside, it has begun to rain, And we are sad. There is no sadness like the sadness of rain. Like the sadness of their faces, in marble. Thieves before the execution, laughing. *** each light makes a spark in the light where it existed where it is thinking about existing each spark makes a light inside the space where you are sleeping “each light makes a spark” first appeared at Duane's PoeTree blog, Jan. 25, 2017. *** Death to California, USA Death to the Caliph The Successor Death to Sacramento, and Los Angeles Death to all of the Angels And their Gods Death to Turtle Island Death to all the names Death to the King Hold his head in your mind Over the precipice The people are rejoicing In his blood Death to the idea of the idea Death to the trajectory and the orbit Death to the hurry and the wash Death to the flag Ride the bear To the bonfire *** My friend loves me In fire; No telling when What bend Or insist His wrist Or the bark Or the bank the end the turf what worth is the human soul so tired mystical and fragrant with god with the truth whose agency ignites my spirit over this pedestrian park? imagined and nightmarish impossible to imagine his love binds me to the earth who is only a servant of higher things whose mind is the febrile corner of the stars whose dance makes me dance my friend dances too like a bad actor like a haunted house coursing over the mind of a cinema-addict drunk and happy it is all right to know nothing of what came before in evenings like this because well, because it just is and your friend is back leering and elegant a full sport in a dignified failure of a nation. the full value of a huge equation spilling its variables over the paper over the chalkboard over the university igniting the library with sex and footsteps each luminary descends Homer and Faulkner to remind us to keep quiet before the book and the water but Bobby is still singing because he is happy *** beat down the grum who suns the dome of your hearsay who opens the tome of your caress who burns the name of your regret who loves you it's time: stunning and bright limning your body with fire
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