[unseen ultramarine]

Siggy Freud uri­nat­ing
on the fire to cre­ate civ­i­liza­tion—
urine and the pri­mal horde of guys,
low POV shot of in­cest camp­fire
with uri­nat­ing Ur-Fathers—
I’m three years old
looking up at civ­i­liza­tion’s
hoary, full-blad­dered orig­i­na­tors


Freud al­most ran
me over with his sta­tion wagon
outside the sunny café
where the man who can’t walk
eats his break­fast every day
and at lunch holds court
over the las­civ­i­ous type­set­ters


be more open-minded, egal­i­tar­ian,
generous to­ward the non-hot—
don’t hubris­ti­cally
strive for hot­ties


would rather get a Pulitzer
than be a dom—but I’ll never
get a Pulitzer so
might as well be a dom—
an easy way to be vic­tor
in my tri­umphal car­riage,
faux-Napoleon of the moated grange


fa­thers re­tain­ing their fa­therly
voices when they speak
to their young sons


what are the creeds
of the babysit­ters’ cult?
where do they wor­ship?
what sa­cred pro­vi­sions
do they stock­pile?


apol­ogy for de­mand­ing
a peanut but­ter and jelly sand­wich
and then spit­ting it out


Julie Andrews in The Boy Friend,
1954, eat­ing a mat­zoh
piled with cheese


Gidget
makes wa­ter a tour­na­ment
of Gidget-refinement, be­com­ing more
pop, more wa­tery, more Gidget-
like—she is­n’t re­ally Gidget
and she wants to be­come
Gidget, so she has to pre­tend
to be Gidget try­ing to be­come
more Gidget, when in fact
she is an im­poster with
no re­la­tion to Gidget


is she his mother or is she just
ogling him while she waits
to pee? I ate the Brie


we dis­cussed Adriana
Caselotti, Snow White’s
voice in 1937


shrimpy guy in North
House bed sopho­more year,
my foot on his crotch
or his foot on mine
led to noth­ing more


Trump bombs Syria


kid singing about marigolds
in tenth grade when marigolds
were a fad—every­one
was singing about marigolds


his arm hair had grown back,
obscenely demon­stra­tive rivulets
proving their un­para­phrasable point—
I did­n’t fin­ish my pir­ogis


YouTube is the torn
place—a movie the­ater can
be the torn place—how to
tear is the ques­tion—rip,
shred, di­ver­sify, make
a sin­gle ob­ject two ob­jects
by tear­ing it—don’t tear it
completely, make
the tear su­per­fi­cial


kid’s or­ange plas­tic but­ton
lying or­phaned on the floor—
kid does­n’t even no­tice
the or­ange plas­tic but­ton—again
I be­come through rep­e­ti­tion
the only one
alive to love the or­ange
plastic bot­ton aban­doned
publically on the agora
floor—worthless
place to roost


pierc­ing we
are the im­pos­si­ble
fog—are we im­pos­si­ble
or is the fog
the cul­prit, if im­pos­si­bil­ity
is a crime?


I want Mommy now”
the lit­tle kid says
and the fa­ther says you could die”


ap­palling force the air
maintains—how
is smoke torn?


dif­fi­cult but­tocks
in a balmy spring


dif­fer­en­ti­ate
celestial
protuberances


the promis­cu­ous un­seen—
cuit means cooked—
is promis­cu­ity the
uncooked promise
or the cooked promise
or the raw Prometheus
or the umami Prometheus?


gloam­ing, says Didion—
brown weed-plain, des­o­la­tion,
as if my grand­fa­ther had given
me this river-book


tit­ter­ing
falls or Titticut Follies


dreamt of be­ing nude
in a bath with fa­ther—
skinny waist, butt pre-
dominating, strangely
S-shaped body, green sludge


hill­side house I rhap­sodized
when my ideals were high


tun­nels
and cumquats, my re­flec­tion
in ash­tray’s closed lid—
smoke cloud and then jump­cut
to suit, tie, rope,
zebra, the stripe fore­gone
and babysat for—


to babysit a stripe with no
intention of aid­ing the stripe,
to lie bleed­ing on the pave­ment
because your stripe is amiss


colum­bar­ium
grotto di­vests cloud


surge of de­sire for arm
video the drows­ing
neighbor watches


the school
bus’s at­ti­tude to­ward
destruction it causes


river hut,
ignored by wild rose—
hut, ea­ger for flow­er’s mute
accolades, rose’s iden­tity
stronger than mine


the un­seen af­ter­life
is promis­cu­ous, or the fringes
of con­scious­ness are promis­cu­ous—
tomorrow, say more about why
the un­seen is promis­cu­ous


some mys­tic
in a New Haven
backyard spot­ted
the God per­son­age sud­denly
materialized—a fi­cus
beneath a sky too late
to qual­ify as ul­tra­ma­rine


why char­ac­ter­ize sight
as ag­gres­sive and cu­ri­ous?
why not imag­ine
sight as pas­sive, ex­pec­tant,
accepting what­ever
bounty is thrown
to its cur-soul?


no­tice now I’m call­ing
our plight a cur’s


cur in­cu­ri­ous
because to seem
too cu­ri­ous would
offend the sky
we hope will re­turn
to the ul­tra­ma­rine
that pre­cedes ab­solute
night


a thou­sand
stars punc­ture
your mis­giv­ings,
pierce your dis­trust­ful
sight-sickness,
and pro­vide pinched
apertures for word­ing
everything dif­fer­ently
the next time we
make this voy­age