a poemte in four sections, including an authorial statement from the poemte

1.

The scar on the android's face.
The watch on the monster's hand.
Have you remembered? Do I answer?
What is your word for the perfect sentence?

Long have I listened to the power-forms,
I love them as I have since birth and listen to them.

2.

Is there something as banal as tooth decay?
What is your favorite headdress?

The cookies are ill, they must be shot
or glued or scratch and sniff.
For my money,
borders between points of view.

These paintings are merely copies.
The real thing is sitting in my attic.
There is depth to this sequence of circles,

but they aren't there. In a box,
not in the corner but in the center
but off to the side,

I franced every avenue. It was deeply pointed.
Each one was shapeless. It was closer to a trapezoid
than anything else, but every time I get closer
it gets blurrier. I've caught up to myself,
become able to admit it but not yet proud. Every poem
is a skyscraper and in the city you either look up
or look down. Each waking moment is spent deciding
the right time to pop them. They are either too numerous
or not numerous enough.

My resignation to the facts
is written in rhyming slang.
I don't think
I've quite run out of rooms yet.

Yet there is also
romantic poetry. It is a briefcase
you deliberately left in the airport,
and I am left falling for a moment,

thinking of the sexual positions
we will hold when I return it to you. And yet.

The check is still in the mail, not quite lost,
and the title hasn't yet made up for the rest of it.

Imagine if the reader were to make
the same exhausted decisions as the auther,
and they stopped at the same time.

3.

My bubble has floated into genre, leaving the rootbeer float

to resolve its wheels away, whispering its function

into the mona lisa's painted ears, yet
                            dodging techno's pulsestream

and lodging into the dancer's fleshy calves,
                                eager with self-promotion

for its dutiful change of form,
                halfway between the ears and throat

where ripples in the candy-cauldron's sense of reality,

making the money outside of a thimble,
                              a softball, a discursion

from one crab-walk to a dream's excuse,
                                until what makes sense

is what got reversed into another thing just like it

and another ballfield's crowded decline into noise
                           is made to be galaxies away

instead of the hope-ball's infinite gestures
                                      and overtones?

4.

I have to take a shit. Everyone does,
it's their way of telling themselves
that it's not too late to make a difference.
If you took the sigh of a stomachache
and bent it around itself, folding and folding
until the relation, "now as long as it is wide"
would work for all other coordinates,

even those negated by the beginning of the process,

you would find something
that very nearly fills our hidden spaces,
creases, and folds,
and we would find much to attribute
to the pair of hands that folds itself
as it is folding
until it very nearly switches places
with the object.

This is poetry's camouflage:
it does nothing but ask the reader
to do what the writer did with his thoughts.

I must end the poem on a different note,
however,
because it is quite unfashionable
to end a poem
with a topic sentence.

---

About the Poemte:

The Poemte was born. His brother once passed away,
and was gone by the time the Poemte was born

The Poemte once had a fondness for action figures
but

The Poemte currently lives in the city
of Native American ghosts and cold wind

    ...

The Poemte keeps learning how to speak again.