Airport Smoking Room
no conventions of obscure origin no talking
please no fake permits no protein motifs no unions
on site no more credit to be had no meat-crazed
temporaries no insult to pesticides no National
Weather Service today
you know it is not difficult
to burn a human body
but she can no more forget
than burn through
until some trickle of feeling comes back
in the blue salivia of worms made of hunger
her throat swallows everything twice
and
grows everytime
it pours its double-life down that hole
it blows out a blue shield against you
and
quotes clairvoyance
in
static lengths
then memory rubs itself all over the smoke
until it's a mystery to itself
craving ten million twelve sticks of gum
no more than eleven hundred pounds of contact
no molecular recognition no rats out of elsewhere
no animal noises in public no virgins no prodigal
flourishes around the corners no plants in the
no-fly zone because no stars need cleared
like a wet thing hitting air
clabbered,
cursive air
the
blank caress
finds a fable in itself
when everything is over
against the wall
there
is a scene under smoke
there you climb back out of it
there it is alive on the wall again
locked in blueprinting
the
shape of missing seas
the missing shapes she is mouthing
to
you through glass
her lips try to burrow into your moody looking
as if they want you
to
help them to save words
from
settling
to suffice with their ghosts
whose fur grows over the cage
and creatures air against civilian air
no thing of sand to quit no running on a beam
for kicks no beaming from China no foreign tongue
in dishes no talking no crossing over no touching
the artwork no standing close no relief from baboons
please do not feed a baboon
nothing wraps tight around everything
promise
it does promise
its clarity is nicotine for seeing
as chemical memorizes chemical
into continent-heavy shifts
and a third eddy is always so weak
no
one sees it
or
its afterthoughts
frantic
in the hourglass
its breath takes her everytime
until
she offers it breath
until
it is no one else's
when the breath goes on its own
one
more step
in the endless wake of divinatory circulations
like a hole leaking
a smoke of her own
angling
to uninvent
the terrible visible
Do's and Don'ts About Fur
In Plane View: A 12 Second Miracle
Play by Thomas Merton
