I’m surprised when something outside myself suggests reality

Awareness…constitutes
Sanity?
No.

I just convince others,
knowing well how to hold it in:
acrid grins, pretentious
hands—lucid mind.

Out of self,
observations

Others pulsing around me
vibratory encasements
oleaginous polestar lenses

I grab loops,
eyeleting lobe-lace for days.

remove the synapse needle-weaver

Balk,
who am I?

Shin-bone physical form,
but I’m all in my head,
beyond questions of
germane corporeality

I take it for granted
that nothing is real.

How amusing you
think you know
how neurotic I am.

- Jennifer Bowles

(added 12.10.08)

Pursuing 8:01

You are late.

It is eight.

Eight is waiting.

I see white walls with elbowed arms,
passion dripping from their pallid
ulnas like marshmallow mud.

Trampling the goop with my black
boots, they make me

the fool: corners become circles.

I breathe eight.

Burgundies belt wood-speak
from the furniture; azures resurrect
Picasso women; myriads of colors
emerge from the white rocks of sheet.

Ah, and yellow always lies,
yelling in lily-languages,
begging me to pull out my hairs.

Time is a chewing vulture.

There is no progression of eight.

I hate my fear of you.

- Jennifer Bowles

(added 12.10.08)

Libertine

We duck the sentence for the poem,
showing the meaning withal means.

We sit at octagon-tables in the books
under our beds.

We see the knobs through the door,
extracting the abstract.

We talk to everyone who shows,
drinking Pink teas at the clambake.

We always dance naked with our clothes on.

- Jennifer Bowles

(added 12.10.08)