A school, Tammi?

I’m Poe’s Laura
seen mauve on many suns
taught to fray,
taught to leap giant eddies

Not me? You say.
It’s poor you with your caused causalities.

Try to get your oasis in a can,
drink down your teal purrs
and real pearls then think of me
as the moment least raided.

Care is here. It’s no one’s ugly heir
bossy, fussy, dove in and done in
a post-angry stare met or sleeked out
carted and crated and packaged to go.

Sometimes you can rig a sequel
with Spartan tuna angles.
You’ve all seen the view,
vied for much more foolish things
only to have them say “It’s so you.”

Oh, no. I’m a cyclone alone,
a lion in descent.
My only notes are in my cuffs and idle,
my cane emits tones
(“tra la la…”) with the glee
of raspberry-flavored vodka
in a spilt limousine.

Meg and Leo see their legs, azure and red ugly
Loose sails lie suspended gone on knowing.
In g-rated riots it’s not medals of silver they’re after
it’s the rope keys,
it’s the unlocking of the risen colt,
the talisman pending the charge of the ram.

I’m in a cinema, an aria,
a check to dear Simone.
I sense there is movement,
a side of the quest that you adore
It’s OK to be anonymous.
So stay, caress the dates,
raise them in an oven,
pet them, hear their tone,
adore them as an idol,
say their name in quiet acquiescence.

Don’t all idols divert passion?
An I for an I, a permanent clot languishing,
until raided, quit or unlocked with a key
an operation done in poverty,
where only the host is rich and easy
exists in between the doors, ready to be limned,
ready in the quest of silence,
in seeing you lay close
in the abandonment
and a semblance of a new scene
with no traitor’s ill lore of time or regrets,
no talons or signs of asps
petted, scorned, pried out of bags,
loaded into nature,
a pun often made more total,
a mandolin annealed once with chenille.

We’ve tied the Nile
read the files on Dad
and his brother liar,
Chief Final.

We meant to sea, meet an eel,
but we met the zodiac moon,
the very gallows guarded,
frugal with their tornadoes,
lame for ten decades
according to the disunity channels
where the taps are perfumed and keyed.

It’s the lake only you and I journey to
where we pile language
under the water.

I see a son on silence in a cause of silver
raise the only human horror,
cursing onto all
a quality of disturbed divinity.

Mail the illusions to the man
Say he sees viper trails as time’s poor cousin.
That it’s time for poor Nella
to finally sit her ass down –
she didn’t roar, she never rose, she just dove lazily
assured of her rosary most betrayed
by sultans and apes
zines written in high alto
signs on the trail.

It seems we may say we’ve been lapped
in paraplegia,
we stand canceled for later, ready, poised
off by only a ilk,
the doe’s eye and the ode delves inversely,
the hard end of a soft nuzzle
at a case of the true “la luce.”


Far favors have their air –
we see a mare in animation
the journey of the ill-closed door
ported back to the trees in the days
before the maelstrom.

On a short cot
she sees the most strange I
jailed under a sealed lid
dealing out a hand of limes to eagles,
loaded with the cure of satisfaction,
in petty oceans crossed by piano.

To the zone of all canned lore
let all Rome be a door
or a dell or a sole sorry story
that I will never tell.

A homophonic translation of a “I Limoni” by Eugenio Montale, intentionally ignored for several days, and then use as “found” source material in a manner that attempts to keep the underlying skeleton of the original homophonic translation and poem.

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