w b    k e c k l e r

 

FERNLIKE

SLICE THAT MEANS EYE

INFLAMED NOVEL

I WANTED YOU TO KNOW...

TODAY...
















FERNLIKE,

Beyond the reach of an opponent

   there are no trees worth associating.

       The cat sat below regret
        in one version of the path
     where our lovers do not return singing.
  
                             A leaflike government

         of a dream,
                               or a succour.

                                              Noise is striking

                                    persistently. As no other
                                                                        nears.

	

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                      SLICE THAT MEANS EYE
                                                      As a Hokkaido crane
                                                                                     tourists are screaming 

                           stamping the light
                                                   crone’s star-foot
                                                                           angrily


                                                                           We yield to patois the skeleton
 

                     When it begins to snow on Max Jacob’s house

                                             
                                                 We dye the breathing-hole,

                                                                                 we mutter indigo

                                                                                                 into a rubbed climax,


                                                                                  rue once called Paris.

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                                                             INFLAMED NOVEL
                         I was interrupted.


                                                A loan by the company:

                                                                    the wrong object,
                                                                                            wrong vehicle,
                                                                                                                wrong century.

 
                                        Posing as a samurai
                                                                       lasted several incarnations.


                                                                              But was really a sparrow.


                                                        I was intimidated.
                                                                                   I loved.

          
                                                                                         The karma came back

                                                        “honeymoon vulgar.”


                                                                                       I moved to television.


                                                                                            Things got better.

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                                             I WANTED YOU TO KNOW...

                          Nature only made meaning up

                                                            like the cacchination of kookaburras
            or the piety of divorce attorneys.

                                                                   Still lurks glasnost,


                                 that awful road home

                                                                             into pliable chiaroscuro.


                                                       The bat-wing dumbness
                                                                                       of early lovers.

                                                                     Like the muscles of fishes,

                                                                                               some paintings,
                                                                                                      some rains,

                                                                                      you can never sack.

                       Some days you can  never thank

                                                                        Stein the quarterback

                                                                                                        enough.

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                                  TODAY...
                                                      An insect makes it through
                                                                                            its millionth century


                                                          without a celebration.

                                                                                But I need heaven to notice

                                                  the tiny Valhalla

                                                                           of my spirit’s grocery list

                                            this afternoon

                                                                            I left by the toilet

                               as I went wandering off

                                                                       to steal butter
                                                                                             from Shakespeare

                                                 and his prissy
                                                                            
                                                                                immortal zoo.

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W.B. KECKLER's books include Sanskrit of the Body (Viking Penguin) and the recently published translation of two early Malraux works, The Kingdom of Farfelu (Fugue State Press). He loves the Cocteau Twins and thrift stores.