Chin Over the Shoulder with One Hand on the Hips

In This Delicate Situation, I Began to Laugh

The [Bēte] Body Signifies/Replaces the Work that it is Meant to Classify

↭

Plodding around in the Grave just to get Going

↭

Reveries of Putido’s Shake

↭

At Its Heart: This Subject is the Root of Lunacy

↭

The Rest (Remains) and Falls to Bits to Say:

“Batter Me Up, Butter,

Baby, Beloved, Risen My Bēte and Bang”

↭

"Armand Capanna"

"Armand F. Capanna II"

"Armand F. Capanna"

Armand Capanna

"Armand Capanna" Chicago

"Armand F. Capanna II" Chicago

Putting the Kibosh on your Batata

Struttered [in] a Year. dump, then Dusk.  Recall: the Desire Hinging-Back; Models an Abstract and Pleasant

Pulse Across a long Memory: a Train’s Unscrolling and Libidinal blow: swole over

Someone’s

Shadow:

Enormous and Bent-

Doubled

over a Lover’s past

Egrimonial

Ejective—

↭

Against Only Itself, Flesh Ahems like a Tragedy, or a Comedic 
bout of Tripping-
                            up[s] Memory’s Route; | or, --------

--àA Jury of Prejudicial Fists, Cataloguing “Negotious

            [-ily] I Oeillade”;—and Happily Extend towards the Nerves of the Nose to Perceive—

↭

And in Lethargic March: the Maddening Cadence of Fingers Rumbling on the Glass: the Reemergence

of Eye’s Sunshine Strain, ----------à“That Winter
I read Pokarney Without Qualms,” 
                                                                        My Thumbs Stuck Out, Frantically
Dodging boobs in the Rain-

↭

                                        “Girl, How I Need to Shower” and this Tongue: Aiming Nowhere in particular,
Bumping-Up a Schlup;

↭

Leaving Behind the Bland Continuum, a Statuesque Drake Erupts along Lake Shore Drive— But Again, “I Swore

I’m Done”. ||

For Now: 

Digging to Bury Youth’s

Caduceus

 with its Entwined Etceteras and Half-Assed Whims]—Time Instead to rise to [this] Age [Stiff,
and Entrapped by a Quarrel “Over There”,|—And isn’t that what
One’s False Memories

Amount to:
                                                                                            Mounting
Up Father’s Skirt in an Untempered Clamor of Fingers Weighing-Down Allegiances, or

Attempting to Define One’s Position-------
----------à“The Stupidity of a Family’s Moral Postulate” 

↭

                                                          Elbowing out the Serial Interest: to be

Between Obsessions: the Barrier of be Being Besieged

in this Whole fucking House: Greaseballed

and Laughing in the Hallway Mid-

Bounce, Lifting Oneself out of: Winter’s Fatty Paw [or]

                  Sweetly, and “Yes” I’ll blow the Entire fucking Block

↭

Like All Others: I’m Submitting to the colon:

Blunts onto Verbum’s Dicendi and Perfictio’s Stunted Perfectum—
                                                                              And Now: -------

----------à “I Had Arrived” and Replied in Lieu 
of What I Neglected to Utter: Some Things and How I Only Desire

this

World to Pierce my Lungs into Happiness

and that’s
[not] a Hard thing to Destroy—
                                                  But Remember: there is much to Gain and

Shatter and Sign: so Trill
and Huffing with Hope
That Flesh: -------

----------àYour Batata

and the Lumptuous rump of Summer -------

----------à I’ll Tuten and Scooter to My Barber, so that

through the rest of the Year: “I’ll Conceal

and Cēpan” this Winter:

Will not “Be Fall”

nor these Bones

Amerced

For:

Desire Again Shall Prevail and Perverse
 

Such an Ass Trills this Trace

                   

 

                                    

              

       

                                      
                                      
                                      
                                       
                                      

                

                                                  

Seneciō Stretgi's Gynecomastia

                 

                        

So Silly: “Of Course”—] the Discourse or/-es [is] the Repetition of Hands Covering Your Mouth || or:-------àSomething about Littering-You in and All those Anxious Holdings of the Heart—

Thus:-----àIf I am to be Committed, to the Next Movement of----------àThis]…|—Demands: All that You are Against, All that is Apart, from What, is the Absolute Seminal Part of This-------------------------à40 Year Joke of “Coming Apart”

Therefore: end in Rest and the Idea of This [Never] Comes to this.

"Armand Capanna"

"Armand F. Capanna II"

"Armand F. Capanna"

Armand Capanna

"Armand Capanna" Chicago

"Armand F. Capanna II" ChicagoArmand Capanna"

"Armand F. Capanna II"

"Armand F. Capanna"

Armand Capanna

"Armand Capanna" Chicago

"Armand F. Capanna II" Chicago

AQUAMARINE

Youth 

As a child I was safe

with you

              as my candle

on the water (always

a favorite song that still

always reminds me

of you)

            and you made

what was bad less so

and what was good

something that was

put up for auction

for the most smiles 

stifled. 

It took an effort. 

There is so much everything in 

this world, yet there is only so much 

of what I am able to tell you about me 

telling you about you and me and what 

you mean to me.

                              I’ve tried for months,

years to put into words an exact definition,

an absolute sum of perfect, a punchline to a

a joke about love.

(sitting in a theater with you in the dark dodging buttery hands for the next grab of corn and talking about things that keep us from talking about how much corn we’re crunching and yet we talk so much eating and talking about what so and so did and so and so said and then the previews start playing and we both make the comment about how we finished the corn before the film even started it’s so corny I can’t even but it’s started so I won’t even try)

Health

we imagine – after – it being all okay and nothing to worry about yet we know we worry about it all the time – even after – and all the concentration can get weary on ones’ bones doesn’t it? and there’s the counting – always counting like age, something we can be proud of like our best days – even when things become worse or better (depending on the day) and yet – still yet – I can count on you when the bad days become a buffer that only a broth of thought can warm a soul enough to make a chicken out of the ghosts we are inevitably destined to become – a glob around the throat that chokes out the screams that come on the one, two, three – bright sails of light that lie in the mountain light outside the window and count on the questions the answers to which are laid bare on a television positioned so that only one of us can see but both of us can contemplate – such an island of pain neither of us has the ability to question, questioning only the ins and outs of needles and knives, the ability of the things flowing out of us to reveal a real relinquishment to the pain – things leaving us, as a matter of course – and how by leaving we leave what we left behind – a torture turned out by bags of blood and puss – and this is how health happens – by leaving and staying and leaving some more – the kind of absurdity that all the things that mom does mom does for a reason and that reason is well and good and all the things that make one son well enough to be able to   

Hope

(we are too busy watching Jeopardy and Alex proclaims an answer about what Buzz Aldrin said upon leaving this earth and you said ‘blast off’ which made me so madly happy I had to take another pill to take care of the the pain the happy was causing my legs and laughing is being happy and being happy is being healthy and being happy at this moment makes me think – yes – this is possible, this)

What does this light-ridden stride

mean to us now – now that we can stop

calling with bad news and just call each-

other with the good

                                  the good that never

stops being such, even if it just means

we went for a walk in the sun and it was

fine.

It takes effort. 

You bring that bright best

of bloom further

                            closer to

that beam of what we can

call current 

                    something cementing

something further in our hearts

so much labor, so long ago, and

so much labor, still

                                nice of you

to be so much something still.

The Book of Mom

We use the table

in front of us as common

glances and a love.

Certain shoulders of

blanket whispers not un-said;

the pleasure of reach.

It is a fabric

chair – swirling around the room

when I say “love you”.

It is the gather-

ing of family and trouble

because of family.

In the love series,

there are so many touchings

that reach beyond touch.

*                      *                      *

Don’t overlook the mom:

the eyes, the throat, the lightening,

the simple, of course.

The place beside her,

the vases full of flowerings

ripe with thirsty birds.

The sweet between of

the holes and the broken time,

asleep and dreaming.

To go, together,

like we feel each other’s hearts;

the beat in the same.

The things we say and

don’t say, always a better-

than option to do.

The glow on your face

tasting life like we made it

makes me live better.

Do say what we will

or want to say always that

over and over.

*                      *                      *

Time in memory

can be magnificent, or

just a beginning.

A spatula me,

spanking all the pancakes that

are still sweet with you.

The smile sun burns

so brightly with your sunrise,

the happy mother.

And so the fresh thing

comes and grows with years gone by,

years like seas:  alive.

And I write this book,

finishing with words of love

& close the book like a hug.

"Armand Capanna"

"Armand F. Capanna II"