was it that when I was younger
thought was more interesting to view
you run out every window just to see
manifestations of possibility each presents

I haven't made it outside me yet
as if our love stretched, impressed across
all the all that's ever been invented
wilds of windswept beauty

with no need for purpose
before its finished its own incidental music
consciousness is not a simple work to question
so long as you keep buying the product

of indifference, of insanities
we live until on the grinning teeth
of absurdity model a run of rampant individualism
we live so aria-highlighted, anti-Pythagorean

I've never visited between
the commercial's existential coffee counter
atom acts of love one day
it is you bought and slapped coloring down

who can say posterity designs concretely
no anomalies, but juxtaposition
waving side long glances trucking
hope's bits and pieces left rare and underdone

like I always knew obsession
like I didn't bank on love


 XN - 1 = AXN (1 - XN)
(Crush the Astigmatism of Actuality Except for America)

They've built up so much nothing where no one should.
They've kicked out the clarinets.
Could we say we've lost control of our Guests?
No self or selflessness to perform.
They are spectral interlopers, fields of inconveniently
sewn in placation we are not seeing invisibly
unfold inside each being as they
try to redecorate the insoles of their thoughts
with beauty only other people imagine for them.
They only love what flashes as long
as everything blows downwind like liposuctioned guts
wrenched mercilessly from the body of the bomb.
They point congressional instruments poised
precariously to blur their dreams cast
with extras and understudies produced
then bleached white at the uniformity factory.
Every non-conformist couch gravity crushed
by a binary star system now orbiting government
chicken houses faded like antiquated film stock
from an over graphic yesteryear, pulverized, and burned.
They are the mainstream truncheon that beats autonomy
senseless. They've laid out the streets
like they'd like to have their brains.
They tell me I don't have to do night like this anymore
now that the neoprolitarean rest of everything else
econoline holiday cruise boat is supposed to be
bringing my new self down river.
But one would sooner see their heads collapse
than consent to be a psyche plastered together
with pictures spread so glamorously thin that image
is no insulation. It's the way they've added so much more
mouth watering taste to the let em' eat cake sawdust enriched
brick oven baked loaves like materialism all around them
in its cold eternal wearing away.
Their voices go on singing slick hellos.
They will buy and sell, and hope disintegration
is a means of reaching equity with one's environment.


Could it be all life is one thought
humans unfold creating time
putting the world into the world
to bear the mark of presence
we feel constantly, an accompaniment
amalgam of our ever morphing essences
Giaccometi like, wispily tensile
not wanting to pretend at anything
more than the heart measures out

each morning, each evening
necessary moments when the sun picks up
light imaginings clothed with muted ambiguities
lifted into whirlwinds dissipated
as quickly as they are
risen up by the stale breath of that god
inhabiting our newspapers since humanity slipped
the grip of history: an exegesis
culminated in technology's android prosthetic
so like the Doppler Shift it's already too late
to return to a lagging simplicity arrived
in advance at our place with no breath
save that of complexity
no more tangible than the old deity
poking us through veiled peripheries

when we romance it
critical juncture promises
all the strangers one could long to touch
various legions of segmented selves
behind placard smiles meant to announce
concrete imperturbable barriers to paint
energy states verging on extremity
vastly oceanic and dwarfing the shores
with which anxiety contains our collective psyche
our cameo parts sad intimations
walking the streets feigning tangibility
the passing by moves past without a sign
surgically stripped of plot
so frightening to virulent strains of instantaneous culture
there will be no consequence
until they only see machines

If we don't mean what we mean
and there's nothing better for us
before all expression becomes horrible apparatus
the dissolute rocks of our creek crossings
escape a nature forced to turn things into themselves
it pencils in disbelief done in matte finish
it wants us to die for nothing
ignoring what is with larger sense
like love, soul, or spiritual redemption
maybe important stuff
which all invisibility is

                                                                                                                                        Candace Kaucher Oct 2003