The Rise of the Subalterns, image by Daniel Y. Harris
Like little t’s, like telephone poles, like repeated rows of railroad sleepers, footnotes, & obsoletions, like red edits, traffic lights on city blocks, like long walks, strangers colliding, jawing off, & punches thrown, like B-4 shadows & target zones, the way homes lay broken over quiet streets, a mortared amalgam of bricks, like two sticks twined over your plotted grave, or else, the devil’s highway, like the burning firmament slipping surrenders, like how the moon will eclipse the sun, the sun, the moon, like clasped hands beneath a phthalo-blinking dusk, like krackenwagon, like I can see right through you, your sweet self-prescribed moonshine taken by the jug; like a sketch of redemption, your facial symmetry, like selfhood’s geometry, what Olson declared, + this, plus this, Venn brainstorms, like what’s x, or xy graphs 90x90x90, turning, like wheels, so timely.
a walrus penis bone plays god,
breaks baby seals, & births
a host of athenas riding euphoria
that tide & trip & bark in arctic skies.
little friend, what a night to sip hot
from this lichtenberg skull,
& burn the fat, the hecatomb bodies;
a toast of blood to new gods
in the dark,
lit at a far distance in spooky
can you see us dancing? we, the god-
in the midst of bacchanalia;
you, as tamino, playing
in a grove of singing ice & still
I must ask
in the lucubrating infancy of omnipresence
what our seemers be?
somewhere beyond, a shadow
casts against the night veil, spectral & hollow,
its voice both dare & pardon,
as you floe away...
o, bellower of this viridescent cascade,
is this hades, or oz?
I make my discession, as you
await the stork delivery of the greek
keep a weather eye
on the stars weaving off their great spindle
silvery laps of paranormality
becoming heroes in blood-drunk
staggers of thought,
not more than fuzzy figures
who guard your doze.
if you peer beyond your veil,
do you see the capsizing of the old guard?