Pastor Ginsberg

Sitting in this cafe attracted
to all the boys and girls even
the unattractive ones especially
them
Making poems that you will
read in the shower
paper intellectually soaked and
sudsy
Preaching unedited
sermons
even mom and pop will
think they're hip

This world is so beat
up and gone man
I hope you like my style

Pleasant Ave.

4 o'clock in the morning birthday decorations hangin in outer space, vacuum-black grotesque burlesque faded clown makeup kiss the bartender 4 o'clock in the morning the birds in the brambles sing scary diminished slowed down ragtime, I know those birds better than some people at the party, how their voices remind me half amiably that I'm out of time, out of the righttime when those still resembling humans pitch their ships and jawbones into the frozen paper, the thin flat smile of the beak split open slat v-ed 4 o'clock in the morning, 4:03, reminds me of the terror of other hours, the dismal fright always opening wider wider like sinking into the ocean chopping water as that sad look on the face of the Earth smiles with grief, this wrongtime of point of no return, feeling the apocalypse creep up on the species with hindsight, so even beauty becomes hard to bear - not only will it not last, but impending doom impregnates the sunflowers and such with a Never that pokes its head bulging under the skin, kicking around so the Never is ever so present. 4 o'clock in the morning reminds me of that choice I've made to be halfway between here and there now and then, shirtless all day under the Minneapolis mist. If I grew old and told a friend about 4 o'clock in the morning, he'd have reason to believe I'd lost it, such things are not preserved for more than a minute or two, and it's true, no one was around at 4am last night, 4am didn't happen, the birds made sure of that. I certainly wasn't there as I'd imagined, eating regurgitated berries and nuts and making love with the menstruating sunrise.

epigram [two]

If you're reading this, everything you deem obvious and not worth telling is actually profound and needs to be said.

symbiotic sight

he is a creature that adapted with the orbs

has eyes of another species, orbs that symbiotically attach to his face.

the orbs are really more of a plant life in their natural habitat, only when he chances upon them and makes his call do the orbs become animal, they are potentiated into a symbiotic sight organ, but one whose animal nature is completely latent until activated with his song sign.

they latch onto his throat and emit a poison, the poison is lethal to most, to him, but surviving the intoxication stimulates an ether between the nerve nets. the rhyzomic root culture of the orb is electrically intertwined with the web of his sensory system. is imbibed though painful to him,
endurance of the suffering conceives a new raw sense, the orbs have evolved into the fleshy organ of another.

he roams about.

this happens on land, where the orbs are barely visible (from up high they are very obvious), they hover just out of reach of him and those like him, so most mugs don't bother even if they can see their phosphene glow, dim and shortlived like a suicide bomber firefly, they are many, especially in the city, and you can spot them if you stand very still and stare into the sky, just out of reach, but he climbed a pole about the width of a tree, just in reach of about three, seized his chance and ended up with two young ones, not damaged from the snatch.

they would last a while as his eyes, until fading out to die.