bank deposit

today i lent my card to my girl
so she could make a deposit

money is something i can give, defines ability, makes
things happen, sets creatures dancing
for me on that non-magical monolith, an executable
for my extrovert activity in economic ecology, dead president clout
is my epigenetic expression, british columbia money is now
kansas money which will be old money decades from now
having passed through laundries of luxury
as the automatic tellers foretold
in plastic prophecies, my progeny
will know me by my money

but today i'm looking for meaning in a trident gum wrapper

god help me, i'm american beauty, how disgusting
a dimestore paradox peddled to self-dubbed
“discerning connoisseurs” of swill, let's make it a movie
documentary, series in perpetuity, game of
copyright leapfrog by the studio, iron fist grip
on the gilded age of cinema, pyramid reaching for the sun
through my millennia-long wander off script, audience gypped
true but better left unsaid, dead, that's
true too, no break, and thinking of steak incidentally makes me
think that image would beef up this stanza more appropriately than
any other assonance that could drift hypothetically through this
obnoxiously-named concrescence of true noxious thought, better
dead than never, named, examination table like a lenticular fable, like
the hyper-plausibility of a saucer out of fake fifties photographs, the one
that abducted me and stole the most precious portion of memory and
implanted me with verse that rhymes but is not intended for song
or beat with fatty sides of slab-slang, angel claws
man-handling me up the escalator steps
lit in ham-fisted christmas colors
entry to the cowgod’s estate, welcomed
with open teeth, tasty payment in adrenal currency
for her slaughter, we'll work out the most vital semantics
in post-apocalyptic crucifixions
set of twenty-two
that being the number most crucial
to spacely sprockets’ numerology nexus

cosmic, man
like the sawfigure mystery hanna barbera
could never animate, that amplified feeling
through lack of meaning, unholy mix
of hallucinations and comments on hallucinations
and the occipital ocular allocution intervening
in matters of immediate metabolism and
monetary digestion that grumbles and groans
audibly when i wake barely catching the
gurgle of rhomboid bloodcells down
the drains of my dreams, like
whatever, like
sin sex and sarcasm, like
finally the words form the mint-flavoured mortar i was looking for
that smooth menthol medication for scratch-throat glossolamentations, like
finally the spaces seem to work for these lines and twine
cuts between each line, tastes like vintage wine with the floating
cork of blood-engorged metaphor, vigorous like when i would
sniff my reaction to quasi's quackadero like my fingertip, like
i couldn't stop even if i painted my nails with correctional fluid, like
holy fuck, i can't hit a wrong note until review, the dark magic
that shines in every mirror’s silver, finger fucked
with the monkey’s paw and straight on until unstern

my bank-girl said i knew better than to deny divinity

this thing she said feels important, it's how i feel
where feelings connect to semantic sinews, i've marked
the spot, made it my own spraycan logo, my trademark
traveling railcarts, talking to trees, telling them of my
folk-heroic exploits, trading bits of bone for ashcan rants
buried in the woods, slipped on a hobo piss puddle and
wound up seven hexes ahead of annexia

what did alan watts teach me?
does my bank-girl know more than me at this juncture?
are those her teeth marks on my copy of the necronomicon?

most of my words feel empty
and my words are who i'm supposed to be
over-sleuthed footprints of myth-tainted syntax veering
into that mesh of tracks, distracted, that's what wrings out, stream
of conscious thoughts together in image, adam and eve's tree, trying
to feel it in music, a hand-cross and an arpeggio identifiable
as me with the earmarked missing eighth note and
a sour flattened D

right now i'm more interested in death than anything, death
is almost as weird a word as anything, another
semantic trap because it's what happens
to a human when his heart stops its beat and
his neurological lattice loses most of its
electricity, but his flesh takes flight, whether
under the ground or in the crematorium it’s
almost hyperkinetic, the rot or the flame and
the “end” is too geometrically precise
and theologically cloudy

i feel music and poetry, enough to think that the only thing
i can call myself is an artist, having my artistic moment and this
day isn't empty, and i don't know where to break these stupid
fucking lines, and i feel a little bit of self in that masturbatory reflection and
i don't much like the looks or the sound of it, mostly free of imagery since
i'm not a very visual person, my brain teems with arabesques
in arabesques, but when i try to grab them with my sweaty angel claws their
contours squirm out of grasp and escape to alternate lobes
that demand i point to the synesthetic picture in pentecostal seizure and
that is what we call the END
of sense, a senseless
tragicomedy, finally presenting
the trite two-face, coal-blasted mask of
dull and dour dao, how unoriginal, ugh
but an accurate transcription of some pedestrian layer of mind
i can cognize and reflect with crappy words under the banner of
meta-poetry in arial 12 point

the unexamined life may not be worth living
but the examined life under examination... ugh

the moment, that's what this is

another gratuitous tense-shifting stanza:
looking back, if i was to keep one thing
it would be an escalator step
with unstated electric rhomboid veins
tangled under a metal bridge, a modest
souvenir that would change everything
if it ever escaped the bubble it was chained to
something to cling to
in the alphabetic translation to
the ivory tower severed
from all temporal interest rates