Satellite Convulsions

    When I bend back to gaze at the satellite convulsions， I

    am an aqueduct for twilit rain. Quite literally I stand

    in the littoral zone： a lens——no an aqueous humor， my

    feet on the land below the high-water mark， my hand

    a glazed waver： hello light-purple lights， hello red spots，

    you've beaten the stars out tonight but you're struggling with the

    atmosphere， ain't ye？ Over centuries the river became not

    a river： Lethe's end crept together——self-scavenging sea

    snake——& the middle filled with water——morphology dubbed it

    a lake & now the moon swims in it & the moon orbits it &

    the moon tidally tugs on it. The moon is a satellite in a fit

    of paroxysm. One minute past， I emptied an aluminum can

    of dull opiate to the drains to wash down my antipsychotics

    then Lethe-wards slunk I. There must be this wire shaking

    loose in my mind， an unattended firehouse， a spasmodic

    filament attempting to cool the baby planet but lacerating

    precious gray matter. Thought leaves no vacancy for memory——

    I forget & forget the rules， the thirst an auger， rain only whetting

    it， I bend & lap some lake up， tongue it， suck the silty mammary

    right where a light from the firmament meets it. I keep forgetting

    the rules， a Ptolemaniac with stars & suns circling me； I keep

    missing my cues， can't arrange the particles moments are made of——

    and it's all good！——because when I bend seriously back & peep

    at the satellite convulsions I am a sluiceway for night rain. If I love

    at least I love aptly， terminally， like a man who loves his dinner until

    he's done with it， then settles to the couch to easy pixilated dreams

    （bounced off， yes， satellites， & beamed into a pale dish）。 And still，

    even unfettered by history or hope， the world does not seem

    shocking——simply something to fly a canvas balloon around， to

    dig a hole in. To climb into. To allow to fill with water， perhaps

    it is raining， perhaps you dig below the watertable； it gushes through

    the dirt； your bath is drawn & in it are drawn （sputniks & stars） maps

    charts with which to constellate your body. Connect the dots.

    A little ladle with four handles——a tiny light strobes in the cup， in hot

    convulsions of distance， bleats of temporal ignorance， synapse of morse

    but no code， blood but no pulse， the stream but no mouth or source.