Art

Middle Kingdom – Michael Borth

THE WISHING TREE

The wishing tree in the movie theater rubble
Haloed by anna’s hummingbird and yellow butter
In the vast interpenetrated concrete secula
Arising in the edge smoke of the lasting roof
And the dream wherein I am a sniper in the street
The shifting rules describe the superposition
Of the game and the nature of it a lasting premise
Eaten by seeded birds and the night rhinoceros
Wearing old war spraypaint and a broken taijitu
And the dove and the fig branch and the olive
And the cucumber seed are the promontory facets
And held like Scrabble chips in the winebladder
And so there is dust approaching gold in the gutter
The satellite transmitting a negated conflict in her sign
But she is only looking for a friend in the headland
Because rivulet and bomblet and tributary are why
She asks me if I’m Jewish but the moon mahadasha
Is above the prism of Saturn in the courtyard of bark
Raindivided and solar inscribed in the grassflower

*

GREAT WAR ISLAND

Heavy bells of the premises
And when broke I think of my father
Standing obstinate and baggy in the rain
In the waterfront mall I am like a museum
Because I do not drink coffee at night
And she admires my white book of rules

You get tired of people and their history
You want one person who does not interrupt
You want one person who never shuts up
Money floods into riverline Dubai towers
Like transmitters of unitary design protocol
That arrive and populate in compelled dreams

And one bad sleep will nightmare the district
And the two black cats of the brick path
And the wandering addicts of the hospital
But the city is more than this, like a fortress
Where the body of the enemy has a little house
And I am shown the tasteful bar of the mafioso

Because the hooded crow also deserves a name
Like a quiet habit will beckon the doubling
In the trash corners of the sullen municipality
Or the wrong angle of light on Great War Island
Because she saw my exact double in Playa Zipolite
Where drunk Zamora said to me I am just a person

*

AMA DABLAM

In the trance utopia of the lifted red dust
I walked the aroma house of the dead river pig
And drank the black coffee of the echoing hotel
To admire the vehícula of the animal machines
Or the geometry of the resting primates orange
In the solar return beholden to the clouds of men
Or the weather above the canyon of mangled axle
To play tag with the children of the secret village
In the town of the weathered stairs to golden tree
To reveal the distant metal snow of Ama Dablam
In the iconography of Hanuman breath patterns
I peak at the stupa of the four cardinal directions
Zygomatic glue of the red wax of the painted eyes
In the adhesive saliva of the bowing miners of tear
The semen as time honey of the smoke realization
Intensive and viscous prayer of the sky threshold
Black as the phlegm coating the low windowcomb
Vast ragged cripples on hand march to the smog line
Or the grey mouse where the beef is cut itemized
Or the airplane mother who apologized for caring
Paradise a synchrony of the mountain bells turning
In the prescient flavor of the approaching quake
Or the wall spiders of the atmospheric current
Where the television night keeper blows on tea
Or subtle paths enhancing the sugar of cremation
Circling the old stone are the children of shoals
Who hunt the golden pebble of the fallen ash navel
As the sadhu blow trees to the ligament of crypt
The fourfaced phallus emanates the glade heifer
And spontaneous freeing of the sacred milk omenic
Where the birds ring the starved oxen of the center
Traffic of the pulse deity and the earth cubicles
Terraced ladder to the arch of the ammonia cloud
The world of the constellation gateway a lapsed mirror