Oughta Um

Autumn poem out of season

The full fall pulls the rakes
Which pull the primates
Who note the eaves. Steep pitch
Describes diagonals in a series
of steeples,
Avian absence scrapes rigid animal fiber
Outlaid in feigned inconsequence.
The specter of a unified subjectivity:
That's not what you say to
The long shore brass band—
Breathe deep that so left
Turn, mark’d with laser, minotaur
Stud’d to ultramarine corridor
Like spanish moss on cypress, but then
The robotics engineer his deer
Fly off with Picasso in a helium
Ship of modernity’s masterpieces,
Things that, too, were to be exhumed
again & again during ribbon-cutting
Ceremonies, signifying being TOTALLY
OVER IT while sending buses of kids
To chests of trophy kills. Hologram:
Anachron, & trust when it is said that the
Animatronic nude cuffing staircase
Naked descend only to decency
When required for Don’t u hb
Words about those ops
.
Bullfrog song’ll make you think about
The limits of human harmonic systems,
Their obvious chariot holograms. Indeed
The subject is gone & a pure nonhuman
Emerges. The media will juggle this
Dual imminence, that of the AI together
With the first clones.
It’s hot in the house
Air conditioner units AVAILABLE NO
VAC & see the platinum orphan irises
Out front tissue donation centers, deliver
Liver & live-stream a shooting spree.
If you’re up for it. Play DOOM, watch
Dune,
The prairie extinction spells out
It's decathlon challenge to Time.
This is the portable abacus when entering
A challenge to a quantum computer;
Like My 700 lb. Life, every area of the antistars
Are p
enetrated. Somehow it brings
An erotic that surpasses that of sex
With others offscreen, their larger
Than life bodies offers a dissimulation
<The f a c t / that this / i s / r e a l /
Supplies a body, a sign too vast, too
Beautiful in its disruptive fortitude,
The shared assurance is that our bodies
With capital grow lean, strong, fit,
Profitable. Agaon—This is group rape,
Consent is manufactured in small print.
The anitstars of the show bear a truth
That cannot be heard, like the piccicato
Inaudible thrum of laryngeal tissue & lips
Beneath a flour sack towel soaked in chloroform.

Some of the lowlife personnel 
Just hating around get gigs,
Paint & sculpt important forms 
Or figures as a token of just how
Important the thing was to the
Amoeba —gotta kill to know.

The ferry takes off. Containers 
Are colorful cells
 CoQ10: ground or grout'd 
Upshoot veins, rot roots from the free
dental clinic simulated from a lost here.
Soil, lick, slit, ruphnol, sip brine. Books
& abecedarium don’t type a lesson in how
One to rewire, say, bathroom light.
Demarcation & blur, laws of polygons,
Disfigurement. Body failing at the end
Of its life—The art critics, the dealers 
& art exchange zombies found the value
Collapses without continued mutilation. 
The morphological change Untitled VII, primary colors, that Puget Sound Port
Oil soaked, calmed, mania abandoned.
Sometimes I think about a furnace (Why Wyatt)
As representative not of elemental chase, 
What’s hungered for, lit and boiling in the chest, but a point,
A density of loss, figured as a circle. It
Speaks to the poverty of a biological condition,
To irrevocable beauties that flee
And return, as predators. Constantly.

Leo Wyatt is a painter, poet, educator, & founder of The Stout Industrial Co. Leo's homeless & lives in Denver at work on a ms. of poems & paintings.

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