Tyrone Williams

The signature public the only avant-garde behind invention wheelchairs (in) "the street." Type (A) bleeds through the page— or screen—it becomes— a pool as it we're one drop rules(.) Individual talent divides tradition into tithes, tenths and nationalized tribes— catch-as-catch-can market share erosion. Staggered Lees piggyback the Gap. John Henry—busted by Keaton. Gentlemen, 'e thinks, as the bespoken, it was the other kind of happy feet I wanted. Guess these shoes will have to have.

for Milan Kundera This is your foreign correspondent, Aristotle, for The Poetics, reporting live from the Mediterranean where the skulls and bones of a few Egyptians crown the tradeships of His Majesty, wave back and forth: starfish—moons—Februaries. To my right, our military advisor, Hernando Cortez, oversees operations at the Aztec/ Mexican border where to the left of a stone no longer rising from water a dove collects its nest egg upon the skeleton of a hummingbird. To my left, our scribe-in-residence, St. Nickle-and-Dime-‘Em-To-Debt, scribbles furiously to a mortgaged future where the last rites of man and of-man are delivered at the near-twin births of the lyric and gunpowder.

A downpour drumming on the rooftop, engine running, car, idle, interior bathed in the pungent intoxicating spices radiating from the carry-out in the passenger seat. Inside the Taj, neon beacon in a strip mall dark with the common sense of folks long gone home, red lamps glowered. A pair of headlights glared back. A downpour drowning out its own drumming, so loud I could barely make out the whispered venom streaming from a mobile into my right ear. She was saying something about something as I reached across the steering column with my left hand, as if my left ear had been bent by the loudspeaker of the law. Engine off, everything—the car, the carry-out, etc.— went cold. I tossed the phone into the passenger seat, put her into reverse, backed up, out, and drove home with my double order, her running commentary as undertow.

for Michel Tournier, The Four Wise Men At least once a month a man boards a bus bound for Detroit, one bag, a few books. Nevertheless he always tells himself I just might leave Cincinnati for good just cut out never look back... When he arrives in the Motor City he drinks and drinks it all in until he’s dead drunk on all fours, a two-year-old mama’s boy, bawling all night night after night for the salt-sweet milk of his sister-mother turning in her sleep from a hard back turning toward the Canadian border... When at long last he takes a bus back to the Queen City, long after the only rest stop, he notices the first signs: merciless thirst, gorging hunger, swollen ankles, what the folks down south call sugar.

I left my heart in the teeth of jumper-cables— black tongue, superfluous nipples . . . By The Time I hit the yellow tape— it was already turning red . . . Of my fair and alabaster love? My redundant chains drawn in chalk? Halfway to the stars I stopped— turned, spat—it’s too late, baby. . .

for Thomas Green Bethune Thar he blows! Plus, tusks crushed into grins, grins host to, guest of, impish Nature, her fort/da “jewels” glassified behind blank opposable pupils—Ahabit perfected (“perhaps memory”) by/for the dicey Veil. Auto-didact/-dialectics staged in rent-to-rent “crowded houses,” asea to har-har- poon Terrible Tom’s tom-tom stutter—VAC  C . Gone but for “language, music, imitation and perhaps memory.” Owns no umbrella to forget to splay open like a bucket. Can’t cast down, can’t go singin’ in the there.