abiotic

 

wonder plants on the sidelines inhale

the nervous air emitted by neon. new is

neon when all the way to the gutter time

is but a blur. and the blur, the slurring

prediction of weather vanes slithers through

and across this and that ‘thing’ and ‘non-thing’

surface of disaster splitting in half the body.

rhizomic moon-body. human or not,

the body unthinks, fades in the grass until

it becomes plastic. the beginning, says

the complacent poet-critic whose love

for cats has been admirable, like the body,

the ‘about us’-telex truth, is impersonal.

the moon is a room for. its bright treatment

of the rain wassails with. its people, all

dressed in, singing to. since rain seems

plastic & ear-biting to the point of view

of dear trees, the moon predictably likens

the body to the natural habitat of signs,

of neon drowning still the. wonder plants.

perfumed by poetry or—philosophy.

the Ecosystem, the still neon-twinkling

thought of. the world: you & me & this

apparition of faces, Notre Dame burning

out of time w/ Kreymborg flowers all

phrasally rooted to the print composition

of ‘vers libertines’ in Others. where is

the Other in The Waste Pound & Other

Poems? subjected to, quarterly slicing

open, the social subjectile: my dear abiotic

of the super blood wolf moon, Make it new!