there's a fucking forest

the trashed-out car is,
though it's not moved for a year or two,
still a vehicle of eras that constant abide,
(between each, bijou to bijou),
as fog-soaked language passes the divide.

dandelion blossom as bright as the sun,
(you know)
distant-sourced photons make life, one to one,
grass-fed beef complements a vegetarian diet,
you all should try it.

finally, a hundred-hundred folklores
from far-flung shores cross-globe
can document the microbe,
enunciate the concept of infinity,
don't talk to me about a tree of humanity,
there's a fucking forest

there's a fucking forest
since time time time immemorial
there's been an inevitable progress
that can only ever orbit a lifespan
flourish before sinking back down
in the voiceless firmament

but how do you pay the rent?

there's a fucking forest
Chinese gods process

'I have heard the pigeons of the seven woods
 Make faint thunder,'
hate any 'greats'
that's WB Yeats

Look Away Now

You trip over Bolaño in the bathtub. Vonnegut hits you right between the eyes and the Eliots are many. Up the walls; a heap of Hugoes crushes you. Orwell bops off your forehead. Down the hallway's an obstacle gauntlet comprising MDF Yeatses floating up out of the loam, Bulgakovs on the machine-made mist, and a Borges tripping at your heel-cuffs.

A Dickens stampede takes you down and, as your breathing fails, a crane-necked Plath mouths the count over your deaf head. Laozi's on the wallpaper. Through the window, Bukowski sleeps on the lawn, awed by the Austen statue there. Tumbling, rumbling distantly, rockfalls of boulder-sized Dostoyevskies threaten rain.

The coaster on the table sits actually on a sea of Woolves and Flauberts and Soupaults. Now, the rug's centripetal Zhuangzi may have its electric buzz but it's Sunday's post-roast Sontag, dancing in TV ruzz, that's retina-burnt in permanent fuzz. Mayakovsky in the chime of the clock is a blue whistle hanging on the light but nothing evermore matters when Tolstoy releases his fatal kite.

A Singer sunrise wakes you, burning your face. You have to shoo a Kafka off the window sill and while the way to breakfast is strewn with Hemingways and Hugheses, the sink's filled to the brim with a mixture of briny Wilde and wily Thomas. In the painting behind the kitchen door, a naked Tennyson and Browning are knee to knee in a tin bathtub that's cresting a waterfall.

Faulkner's in the bushes, Peake is in the sky, but Hardy's there to bind us, eye to eye to eye.

At Galway Races and Galway games...

There where the course is,

Delight makes all of the one mind,

The riders upon the galloping horses,

The crowd that closes in behind:

We, too, had good attendance once,

Hearers and hearteners of the work;

Aye, horsemen for companions,

Before the merchant and the clerk

Breathed on the world with timid breath.

Sing on: somewhere at some new moon,

We'll learn that sleeping is not death,

Hearing the whole earth change its tune,

Its flesh being wild, and it again

Crying aloud as the racecourse is,

And we find hearteners among men

That ride upon horses.

Yeats' 1910 poem. Below is a version created by passing the text through several different languages in Google Translate. It seems to have shrunk in the wash:


There are, of course
 Joy agrees
 Rider, horse gallop, 
 A year ago, the crowd closed:
 We also have good attendance,
 Hearteners public place?
 In other riders
 Instead, firms and workers
 World of breath and atmosphere shy.
 Song: Some of the new blue moon 
 Learn sleeping death
 We have heard that all changes tune on Earth
 The meat is wild, re-
 Racetrack crying out loud!
 We saw hearteners man
 The walk.