John Bush


Hard black
sculpted skinned waters-cut into
(sometimes someplaces)
comic white
paned motion-
stop at small spaces
to eddy where
sharp and clear and icy
at once
a nova spear
miles from the high voltage.
what is the spark that travels afferent,
that burns through a channel of
inspissate time,
initiating the operants of the river
where at certain pauses, curled lines concentric
spread and connect
the lichen stained stones
to a cusping world,
a thin glimpse behind the eyes
where five thousand dimensions flash
while the filaments anneal the word
with smoothed granite.

The dilating blackness
fuses landscapes,
presses and curves into
what Kant declares second stage,
the inchoate Stevens' world,
a match of the familiar,
like seeing in while looking out.

Is this is it?

Then the fulguration bears down upon a welling assemblage
of flesh,
falls out a village of thought,
messages, commands,
arcs and plains
to and through the extensions that lenghthen
and savor the electric charge.

There are always these banks and slopes,
the transitions which stretch
across the bridges in the skull,
and these moments
keep the moon, constellations, stars
in full view
from morning till night as the superior third
swims into a widening tide
seeking the mystery of force,
the source of air---
Where the sky
breathes the water.

A Dessein
the center pulls
demands life
the inflamed stretches
the blue skin and
swells taut
almost bursting
from the violent beginning
the violent end

White knuckles
gasping hands
clinch black grooved handles
feet push
toes spread
every muscle a body
livid hard.
the twitch,
the start of every soul in the world
waits at the threshold
to absorb life's throated scream
a   ticking   freshet   seaward  -   immense  -  imminent

Holy Water,
like glue,
red and yellow thick
the Earth splits.
the strained burns.
brown spots surrounded by milky red
thin lines bleed
circled air flows-----not enough

water rushing wind through trees
      applause from multitudes
      traffic speed
one is one is connected

as space unfragments

as time wholes

as matter refuses to forgive.

The concentric shocks
almost yield.

the stars fill the spaces between
the supernova sucks inward
begins to implode

at the mouth
She inhales the forever,
grand monde

So I said,
"You know ,Alice, I thought the same thing, only just a little
differently, though still complete."

collaborating with landscapes
of color and form
while pacing through,
it was a trance that stoned the face
into a quiet conversation with it.


the fisted circumference of bone
centered and
bearing marrow
escalated towards
the sharp fluorescence behind retinas,
and communed with all attributes of extension.


the extra charge divided
and the clocks
stopped behind
synapsed sparks as the tegument
hardened into
an enclave of thought and
prevenient strata


into form
the outlines that enclose,
like a tangent moment wombed and cusping.
there it is,
the symmetry of time, thought, space in this second excursion.

Whom the gods love dies young

She's like water not of this earth
Echoing like a ripple-traversing great spaces

yesterday morning it rained and
She stood on her Little Tikes desk waving through the window at a dog-
Her eyes flashed like smooth stones under shallow rapids-
her retinal blaze watching rain hang like strings from the sky-

She danced in rapid circles, surging like a river after a solid rain-
She twisted her hands to the music-
Her hair white as falling water
over her shrugging shoulders.

At lunch
She packed sliced peaches into her mouth-
The juice glazed her hands, chin, chest
Like water past yellow rocks.

After her bath,
I combed her hair, and curls eddied
And cold shined like a stream-
Like sun through ice.

She's too thin lying in bed-
Her backbone like wooden balls-
Her knees steel bolts-
She doesn't watch rain.

She breathes wet and shallow
Waiting for the music that doesn't sound-
She doesn't dance.

The ulcers burn in her mouth and
She presses the fruit she can't eat
close to her chest in tiny fists.

When I comb her hair, she stares at
The fine strands falling to the floor-
She's without air when the tangles catch.

And the cancer in her bodies stills her.

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