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Colin Momeyer
From Here to the Sanatorium
I laugh like a madman as the patriarch
of a slant route. The route that goes higher in constellations
and the deep reverberations of the end of time in this bedlamite's
blue eyes. From here to the sanatorium it's single file with
everyone hunting for a flash of desire—a high to erase
all prior highs. And me laughing at it all, cackling in the
radio static. And there is nothing above that isn't also in
the ground.
When I saw you at first I desired your death.
To cut off your left hand. And to own your memories—though
I give no new life to this world I am worthy enough to take
it. And you among them—like a camouflage of roses. I
study the print and the warnings—I take it all down
as you go on laughing in my own voice. Simply put I'm only
here to exalt myself.
And so seeing all this the lady with a beard
limps out. And her small child—who is made of ash. And
what a sight! they say. One day a man wakes up in bed with
one less eye. One day a giraffe is riding down the street
with a beret. One day at the sanatorium I began screaming.
Tea
I can hear this man from a depth that is preclusive.
Should I drink green tea or white tea? For instance, you understand
the smashing of tablets—light and darkness. And the tablets
are pointless. Why do we put them together then? Let me show
you which tea I drink. I drink tea for nourishment.
Marijuana
YOU ALONE IN FURS, and a cut-up arm—fine-tuning,
the apartment for some silence, mostly.
And ripe-drunk wearing your girlfriend's clothes
so unnatural to be this gladly sparkling.
Lazing on blue sofa, reading Hass—thinking of
the tone-depth of hailstones on the skylight.
The toffee-foot cat slumbering, magic in the second
floor—alone, alone, counting a dream.
As you inhale white cigarettes, drinking scotch
to soften the evening with raw almonds.
Yes and No and Yes and No and Yes
From the clouds' light the snow is amber and after
midnight and after a cigarette I'll turn the lights off
and count thoughts, count how much I slouch, while
samadhi and visions and storms of snow fall through
inside, outside—north and south. one less tooth—
friends keep disappearing, I keep sending kindness
You had a vision of God and it meant nothing
The bizarre is like the building of echoes
in a monument of seconds—
As the family, as the friend, as the radish
devouring—
While you were overdosing on cocaine, etc.
in a hospital etc.
in the 21st cen. . .
The grass bloomed.
the gas etc.
the silence, clearness, sharp light
accentuated the dome
of your memory. And your friends etc.
your pulse laughed,
and slowly you were pulled from a husk
you were alive
and it meant nothing.
| Colin Momeyer is a poet and multi-instrumentalist.
He works in the field of mental health alternatives and
resides in Vermont. His album, the Viola Engine, a poetics/synthesizer
project is available online under the name, Gewaltkultur. |
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