PROSAIC BLUE WHALE TERROR
believe in me!
my prosaic blue whale terror,
my backpack full of leaves.
fold me like the printed page,
your golden oldies.
this little-league response is not quite loud enough
to make a dent in our cardiac diagram.
it’s just as just,
it skillfully manages numbers.
you’re curving upwards in a curving
pattern that I like.
I dream my body’s made of spikes,
& you surprise me.
a white horse doing backflips
off the diving board
brings pleasure to the minister.
I squeeze out my tortillas
on the hide-a-bed.
SNUG LIKE SOCKS
intense winter –
I’m a crybaby!
I’m wrapped around my sorry ankles,
snug like socks.
I met you on the sidewalk a year ago,
when the dogs were terrifying.
you remind me of my parents.
I broke a living stone open
& it sang its sorrows
into sutures. my future tutor
teaches me the lessons of my past.
blue shingles,
where do you keep coming from?
daylight softens as I hold it like a hug
in my tight grasp. a day does not diminish
over time. I settle in & begin
to pour over all it is that we know.
the moonlight pinches my tush!
winter still cracks its knuckles,
dealing w/ the daily rapture.
our hats match,
but we’re not friends.
I work up to the tallest bit
& throw myself
like a boomerang over the canyon.
HOLOGRAPHIC OVERPASS OR CAMPUS CREST
these whirling blades slice serrate my judgement
into fractions that resemble
angular buildings of concrete & glass,
imposing structures that require
a certain count of decent particles
per million, an airborne cosmopolis
melting into sunlight ooze.
you took a part of my biology.
you took apart my biology.
you took part in my biology.
the misty city folds to ruin
at our glance from hillward down,
across combustible distances in from the wild,
blaring its serenity to the ceiling.
obnoxious parasites devour minutes
like a banquet of souls,
effusing carbon molecules from near to far.
it’s a shame we can’t figure out
how to slow this thing down, you imply
as we tumble towards mountainous glory
& the imperceptible pang of guilt
that tries to whisper in your ear
on the way down. the car is full
of seashells, & no, I can’t pick you up.
a mirror of myself that slides right thru me
may be more than I can stomach
in one evening. your barky skin
rips off at painful angles,
& even I can tell you’re bothered.
but tell me, where’s your sense of pace?
the rhythm that destroys the draft that’s blowing
like a silence seen in movies?
where is your footfall,
your titular character?
where is the sound design, for crying out loud?
they train oracles on mars to inspect this stuff,
not just normal formals!
I heard that the hatchback was loaded
& it wouldn’t take no for an answer.
the good parts are all out of view,
& always are.
it’s the nature of the thing.
no holographic overpass or campus crest,
just pure & unadulterated grass clippings
mixed with surly joggers & their calves.
the blue bits still assert themselves
a fair deal, though, & might not be
so quickly taken care of.
stop looking at me!
you’re still right where I left you
& you haven’t come closer.
I could reach out & touch
the spot where you’re staring.
oh, my flaming bodice!
my charm of injury!
my teardrop mannequin!
my peanut gorge!
what has gotten into the end of the world?
I can no longer recognize
these limbs on my body.
let me set it off for you real slow.
let my particle mass slow down your wealthy spasms
into ones that you regret, an ape
an ape in sheep’s clothing,
woven into a basket of faith to be had,
to be given, received & distorted,
to serve as a lullaby, colorfully done
like in sing-songy rhythm & tapestry hung.
you exist where you oughtn’t,
it’s dire & it’s true.
I can make these jokes on horseback
but will stop if you come closer
to the point than I am
comfortable w/.
my spangled neon exercises
work their wonders while I wait.
a jelly-headed pilgrim box is foxy
as it waits beneath an awning for the bus
to amble sideways, a hysterical craft
of historical breadth & universal intrigue.
I needed a way to get my fires lit,
& that was all.
the street is clad in smiles
that have been stepped on,
rained on,
left out to dry.
it’s a wonder they maintain.
they show their features more or less
without reserve, treating boundaries like
the dainty strings that they are,
straining daily, bound to fools,
expressing admiration for the most
mundane things. it’s a wonder
they’re out there. they can close me
in a room, but I won’t feel secure.
nobody leaves a light on
in the lobby, they’re too busy
playing cards on piles of snow.
the best is yet to come & come & come again.
two blue whales at once!
or was it three?
they’re there for you to pluck
out w/ your forceps,
they’re there for closer inspection
should you so wish.
I trust you’ll find them
completely satisfactory,
& in keeping w/ your
most prestigious standards.
no expense has been spared,
I can assure you.
only the finest quality blue whales
compete for your approval.
the world is going orange.
I’ve stained an entire side of myself
just by listening. will I buzz
around fruitlessly, just because I can?
just because I want something?
what’s intolerable about wanting?
what’s incurable about buzzing?
I read these tattered posters
as I fit about my tank. beep!
ALL IS STILL
the mechanical expressway has gone haywire
& we’re riding out the options in a tidal wave
of pirouettes & somersaults & do-si-do’s,
each one of us alive w/ our own thing,
a complicated virtue wrought from space
& blood & sex & made awake & soft
& crying, mouthing wordlessly
in a concentric vortex which threatens
to recognize everyone’s secret selves,
so we settle into order. all is still.
FALSE CHARIOT
give me a wall of cheese
to demolish, give me a red brick rodeo
on which to cut my teeth!
this type of light is artificial
just like all the others.
I rinse all my candles in the sink
to keep them from harm.
I can’t bring terror to the love around me
even if that love is platinum!
even if that terror sings so badly!
I grip the bits that let me,
& let dangle my false chariot.
we hit bumps in the air
like loose leaves dropped from rooftops,
our tiny game made out of altercations
that took place in quiet places.
soggy candles!
why won’t you catch fire?
I’ve said it over and over again.
the way the water’s running, I’d say
that times are crawling up the creek,
inspiring polar tendencies to show off
their varied colors,
meticulous in troubled climates,
forming sawdust out of clay.
I rode around the rim
& then went climbing.
PILE OF LICKS
it’s not two thousand & eleven any more than I’m
a class-action caption trap faction,
an automated zoo machine set loose
to pull the tablecloths from every tainted moment.
zeppelins cry about old loves & hard times,
kept awake at night by thoughts of urban foliage.
it’s really not the time, not now,
the trombone circus hasn’t played
its famous call-to-arms.
this predates my delicate lilac by four stories,
the world spun like a top
for merry jerry edgar’s day of dues,
his litany of taxes,
his gnashing pile of licks.
he saw it forward by creation,
& buffed its turnip-faced display.
it was a day to ride on horseback.
ba do do do
kernt, vum, skih
ba do do do
I accidentally overfed the angel in the aquarium
& now he’s bloated & floating coated throat
to ankle, paled out in the flesh
which flaps like tissue paper near the pump.
I take my picture frames in a box to the basement
& set them near each other calmly
like you would expect from me if you
expected anything. I take them down there
& we sit. fill in the spaces.
UTMOST RAVIOLI
w/ our rigid strong backbones
that won’t stop at nothing
to continue in glory
to the utmost ravioli
& ostrich knees,
we plow thru the surrounding
decay like we’re dancing,
we throw ourselves into our work
like a centipede supply chain
on opening day.
we’re purified by reverse osmosis,
says the signal sent solo
to the receiving end
of the relative radio.
we’re bottled & we’re canned.
the daily acumen that leads me on
to motley chambers, under bridges,
looking out of dusty windows
to the televised reversal of consideration.
I heard it putter thru the speaker
on the counter.
how many bowls of slush
could I get thru
supposing things went right?
the blacktop pock-marked
w/ spackle & acorns
for every holiday,
the occasional cry of alarm
from inside the bricked-off mausoleum,
the stage is set for dirty missiles
casually tossed like a pigskin w/ dad.
RED RHINO
can I be a delayed transition?
I saw a red rhino & it wasn’t hiding.
there was a red rocking horse too.
can I see the things whose words I know?
I’m dressed in red
& my lips are tied up in bottles.
the flea has falled into the pool to cut costs
at the armchair supermarket bazaar.
there’s a chance of winter fully standing
in a still hallway, cueing promises
to be overrun & overpowered.
france invented the wheel,
but I applied friction.
please surveil our southern-grown
animatronic free radicals.
they blow up so fast.
PALMTREE CARPET
shot like splatter
out
to play,
coming over
up
the down arrow.
graph,
ledger.
we’re riding around in our
carriage
for fun,
& to tempt the away
& afar.
I rake
a flu virus.
the rhythm is withering
out of the ashtray.
slide me by
exorbitantly.
you seem
to lounge
on the beams.
it hasn’t
happened lately.
TEST RENDER
like a scab on the neck of a dictator,
this shimmering limerick holds fast to the wall where it sprouts,
reminding the world that violence decreases incrementally within sterile conditions.
the drums that surround us are teeming w/ multiple functions & flavors.
the crumbling seat falls apart from the top down
& collapses in silence & rhythm.
when I talk about shared meals you will know what I mean
& feel guilty,
or at least responsible.
watch us sprout from the brick in formations resembling complicated shapes,
watch my diction flow nicely thru the teeth & pool out onto everything,
making me sticky & rebellious,
to feed my desires to the sheep in my pasture.
some greenleaf god designs a box w/ no way out,
a prior engagement made of soft metals.
the inside smells sanitary enough,
& I have faith that we can keep the town from being moved.
let’s teach the insects how to swim
& train volcanos not to sneak around so much.
we fold flat,
we expand & distort
like the lines of our surface.
INTERACTION MANUAL
what I am very keen on is obeying the force of my mandate,
the symbols that simulate varied importance as it’s found out in nature,
aware of the glaring magenta intrusion designed like a doorbell to make one alert
to the rugged outdoors & the world as intrusion on whispery flutterings held in a hand.
the barriers are sealed in some agreement not to tolerate each other
as a base-line interaction manual instructs,
to keep a clean line interworld & make it mostly visible,
except that holes are growing as we must
& it’s time to pick the oranges
out from the store.
I pull a veiny stem from its IV ivy for four straight rounds,
a piercing blow but in reverse
as orange says.
the sound that’s the result is made of piled-up buckets stacked on top of concrete,
a silent pouring-out of rocky skins that stay as still as buried treasure
silhouetted by the moon.
but this moon is a false promise!
you’re effectively blocking redemption from feeding itself on your soft side,
& I love & respect your most obstinate tendencies.
Colin Ferguson 