Quantum Aquarium

Ron Androla ~ Quantum Aquarium

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Ron Androla

Quantum Aquarium


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Ron Androla

Quantum Aquarium

a publication of MiPOesias Magazinewww.mipoesias.com

Poems copyright Ron Androla 2012


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http://www.mipoesias.com

http://www.mipoesias.com

Quantum Aquarium 6

Walking Across a Floor of Smiles 7

Remember, You Forget 8

Circles of Sunlight 9

When They Came Over 10

Labor Day, 2011 11

Matters of Degrees 13

Imagining 14

To Have 15

Survival Silence 16

What Are You 18

She Shifts, for Halloween 19

Light Verse 21

The Eyes in the Trees 22

Tao, Tea, & Clove Cigars 23

Unprepared 24

Self Portrait as God 25

The First Poem Written After My Mother's Death 26

Blue Butterflies 27

A Chimpanzee Wears a Small Rainbow Hat 28


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Quantum Aquarium

A few birds are watchingUs drown. Odd, underwater, beakless finchesNobody questions or denies. Viscose laddersTwist, & with liquid elasticity ghostFaces nearly form on droplet rungs.Red Man chew turns into dark, tobacco Glass as the wad evaporates Along cryptographic rinds ofShore we kiss before the tide inhales. Everything about water is gray & Oxygenated & engraved. Feathers, scales,Tentacles, alarmingly large eyes,Wet flora, ferns, & fins, washAgainst our paned side of death. Distance is boiling & turbulent. EarthIs a tumbling rectangle orbitingThe rare, soaked viewer. TadpolesFeed on moonlight photons. EverythingAbout water blurs dustGray. As wide as a cosmological operaAmoebas burst into feathers, &Wet to flesh, visualize breakingThe top of the rimmed lake.


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Walking Across a Floor of Smiles

Heavy, summer leaves After night rain of broken ostrich eggs Before Sunday's morning sky

Is back-lit shale shellCrack a hefty geode egg for breakfastGnats galore, birdsong, kitchen trains

Crack a global, pulsing eggIn Ecuador with a wetWood club, a pumice hammer

Brain involvements, stupid shitEvents to dig thru, an instantaneous loss Of all muscular tension & bone arrangement

To be a heavy, summer leafAfter night rain of broken ostrich eggsWilting on a Sunday morning

With either the tree or meUpside-downInside a dot of meat of a

Proton areCenturies, echoes,Trillions of human laughs.

ManualPhysicsTweak of an oak leaf in summer.

Please, shattering,PleaseSmile.


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Remember, You Forget

Yogurt coats the bottom of the sky.My hairline is way up my head, onceAlarming, now simply fuck it. I'm aGrammatical monster with porcelainTeeth chewing caramel poems.Every goddamn leaf in the trees thisLate summer morning is an interruption.Blind before I die, or dead before I'mBlind, that's a good question. MorbidityPrecedes me, erasing the erasure.


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Circles of Sunlight

Our beautiful vase is more than purpleIn the right light. The sun thru The landing window hits the vaseJust right, coins circle our livingRoom! They make us laugh!

The result of triangulation is like aJetliner crashing into tree-high Poppy flowers, muscles of amber smokeRise. Everything depends on triangles,Even beheaded chickens. A man, a

Woman, ricochets. Every echo is A variation of three, our three ears.Two hands grab the sides of a laptopScreen & shake & spin with it,Wires like long, black, jellyfish tendrils.

The third voice behind one's Mouth voice. Lasers of the eyesIntersecting deep in the shadowy brainCause ignition, recognition, word.It's a 3-way street, & off the berm

Vampire fleas lift together fromA rusty tundra on Mars, & the Swiss Are pushing hurricanes across theAtlantic along with death kissesOf the God Particle burning thru

Amerika like an economic crisis.A man, a woman, dance to Music of wind in approaching autumnTrees of the city. 3 Suns juggleIn the foam-enclosed sky. Our new vase is Fun!


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When They Came Over

Unwashed for months on a boatTo the shores of Amerika, freedom,Possibilities of the imagination, seedsFor the future & prosperous lives;Knocks me like the brunt of a pistolAs I sit here by a Great Lake in The 21st century staring at gray Paradox. You bastards didn't own

Smart-phones, drive 4-wheel driveComputer cars, know hot-&-readyPizza, flat-screens, microwaves, ohThe microwavable. There were trees,Honeybees, rutted, muddy roadsEnding in deep, black woods, MoonOver the world like an egg-coloredMelon. You were always lost so next

Generations cld pursue, find happiness.I hesitate to say gullible, naive, but theLand is cracking, Jesus plans on burningDown from the sky onto the top of Chicago'sSears Building, point lightning bolts across The curves of the world, fire His rage.We're sunk here. We can't leave or enterOur borders without a passport &

Genital x-ray. You grew cattle & cowards.Roll in yr graves, ring the bone bells. OurSafety has been slaughtered & shit out byWolves who run the planet, who blendIn with the gold streets until their teethRise, shiny blood & smiles.


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Labor Day, 2011

Relax, darling, Ann urges, it's Labor Day, relax. I'm mutteringIn the kitchen pouring my secondCoffee, the fucking vacuum, needFucking gas in the Jeep, fuckingLight-bulbs, fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck,& Ann, knitting at the window in ourMiddle room, hears me. Relax,Darling, nothing really needs Done this instant, it's Labor Day, & you're off work, Relax.

I'm going upstairs to see if I canWrite, I announce. Yes, sweetheart,Yes, by all means, do. Gray morningFeels like an aftermath, smells like nightSkunk. Canadian geese cut the heavySky, & I'm at my desk with coffee &Clove smoke, polyps inside my rightNostril burn. Poems are homes for The homeless, nets for the blind whoAre falling from the dark clouds.Poems are maternal & miraculous,Accept them like infants set in

Canoes of brains for the womb.Atmosphere is a fucking womb.Last night I listen to 2 a.m.Crickets & city trains. Our bed,A spoon made of black feathers.Crows grow in the park with its highTrees at the end of our block.I rise from writing this poem toPiss, pass Ann in her room, askWhat are you up to, & her answerDoesn't register. WHAT?I'm going thru my socks drawer.


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This makes sense. If her explanation Is something I expect to hear, I hear,But I'm going thru my socks drawer,I honestly did not grasp until the secondTime sd. Stopped my stride in the hall.A breath comma. A crow on the roofOf the garage under my windowScreams. Poetry solves contradictions,Contractions, even physical tasks. I feel Like a sagging barbell on the moon.Incredibly, exactly in reality, church bells Chime Yankee Doodle Dandy.

Is this fucking Hell? A poem has no forceAgainst Yankee-Doodle-Dandy church bellsOn Labor Day morning, 2011. I'm relaxed.Really. A stretching, cracking poemYawning awake, concluding,Yes, be a hermit in yr world today.Avoid human contact but for Ann& readers of my words. LetThingsSlide.Things Always slide.


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Matters of Degrees

Anger the language. PissThe poem off so it snapsTo bite yr keyboard fingers. Be hungry & caffeinated &Lazy in terms of mankind.Open various multitudesOf life wounds with bloody,Stretching thumbs, hover,Drip brown spit likeSizzling acid on woodenScabs, & crusted, scarlet sap.Do not be girly human. Into aBlender, all yr vital organs slop.Gray meat of brain shades The red silk milkshake. Chug. Time shifts backwards.When you first see a spiralingHawk, or taste a lucky-stone.Atomized, you are cum spray.You are an unholy, Unlucky, goat-headed Poet bleating at the blue sky.With evil intention, wordIt.


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Imagining

She twists the filter from a cigarette, rough,She has long wood matches in a blue box

Paint tubes, curled, indented, with tonguesDrip & she has enough brushes to form

Two whole camel earsLoud Cuban music smokes in her cellar

Her whiskey glass fingerprints Boil, throwing her head back

Again & again & it's morning in the Middle of Amerika as her anger pulses

She's birthing afterbirth fire in the faceOf Fidel Castro


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To Have

To have no teeth! As a poet at age 57Writing a poem in the autumn night

To have an orange feeling, that, or dead black.To have a different attitude proportionate

To altitude to have levitating feet toDive from star clouds far from earth

Like a bar-hopping god across the mirror-bottled Cosmos. To have no money! As a poet at age 57

Is a man walking the lineWith his bone-articulated hands & old rings

Over a raging river, scrub-brush cliffs, recalling Souls who lost the grip on time. The line

Ages into soft lead, bends, breaks.To have understanding every line

Breaks to be orange about death, poetry,To have breath absorbed in a mind.

To have no words! As a poet at age57 transmigrates into an ancient walrus,

Sea of blood & wine & gulls at Midnight, on rocky shore, ejaculates

Singing Mama CassDreams. To have coastal smiles minus tusks.

To have loveTo have love


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Survival Silence

I wake naked at 6 to pissOver the crying, impatient catThen return to our bed with one eye.

It's my day off work,Sleep, I tell myself, & IDo so the egg of my second eye grows.

7:30 a.m., Ann has been up sinceI don't know when, but the dog is outside& the cat is baptized, satisfied, & quiet.

Getting my coffee with my morning meds, Lipitor, low-dose aspirin, acid-reducer, I open the orange kitchen curtains over

The sink to see frost, real frost, under-freezing-Point frost across the alley & the Jeep'sWindows are iced, yes, Taurus' windows,

Too. A frozen sunshine Tuesday morning.Here in my room now, my relatively warm room;This warmth matters, considering the past

When I was writing with the spiders in theCellar like Omar Sharif in Russia.Migrating upstairs was a slow evolution,

But then came space heaters & 4 layers of Sweaters, 2 wool caps, a wool scarf, a furnaceFrom 1713. Last year's installation of a new

Furnace, we love it, HEAT, a warm houseIn all rooms. Even the cellar isn't crystallized Like Siberia anymore. Warmth in our home

Feels like victory, & frost came last night,Freezing the surfaces of the city. This is anExample of the universe always trying for


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Balance. Yet black holes roll thru the stars.We cannot forget the universe isMonstrous & multidimensional.

There are empirical repercussions.Slapping a brain bongo,Throwing rib bone silhouettes at the

Moon, we create the beauty in music,But the sun is so tremendously loud,Roaring, it drowns us, it hates us. Maybe a molecule

Of song spins from the scorching radiation.That's all we can Hope, a molecule of human slips past

Death. One day, maybe, I won't be ableTo pay National Gas for heat. I hopeI don't care.


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What Are You

What are you doing?

I'm rolling a captured marbleOf night wind inside my vesseledHands. What are YOU doing?

Listening to the edges of echoesWith slit wrists as eardrums.What are you doing now?

To allow my body to blossomRequires absolute blindness &The death of precognition. So

I pray like anyone else desperatePrays without teeth withPoems. What are YOU doing now?

Wearing fine nicotine lace, my skinPores bubble tarry amber pools.My golden fog hair levitates over

October, over weird moons of the moonAs it arcs across the southern sky& back yards of defeated, slaughtered neighbors.

What am I doing? SwimmingAgainst a wave of skulls towardAn endless skull horizon. Pork chops

Are nailed around my jaw. GlassesMade of ham. I am lighting a wooden match

With my throat.


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She Shifts, for Halloween

She's Appalachian. TheWell smells of skunk thisMoist dawn. Below her blackCabin, stirrings, ascendingCrow crescendo. The walnuts Want to fall, swear, & nests showIn the trees. She thinksCareful, logs, age, bones.She remembers her Last shotgun story.

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Pale, admitting sinsTo the largest moon of the yearAs wolves round the night,She has her fire, a goat head,Sack of dead bats, incantations.Skull-caps bubble under the rumblingGround.

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A 21st-century reaction. InfinityIn the shape of an iron spike. HerHair wars, skin enhancement,Heating-elementWire eyes vibrate, lashesSwing like ash feathers in the air.Flutter, baby, for no camera.

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Issue seven sighs to pinA map made of hydrogen Onto the ass of Jesus,Who yelps Enough! Enough! ThouArt! Thou Art!


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Off Alaska poets Vomit their wordsPiss & vomit (& seal slaughter)Piss & vomit (& seal slaughter)The Amerikan tundraDrum of doom expansionIs in her shattered,Ice quartz hands like blood.

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Hugging to suck buffalo titGreased by protonsWith canine teeth, ajar,She shifts.Men & giraffes AccelerateScreaming down from the blueSky, flesh & bone bombsTerrified, wide-eyed, rapid.

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It has always been Halloween.She's that color, spices in breeze.The doors shake, the windows, Floors, bed levitates, candles die.A fluted, muffled opera from the Center of a pumpkin. Dracula's2 piercing cocks in her purse.Boo.


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Light Verse

Being a poet is a terrible thing. You smoke a black cigar insideA small, 2nd floor room deepAfter midnight, nakedly gross,Grossly naked. As a quick fix

Grind 3 wounded grouse To death in a field with yr elbowsOnly, for luck, spit at the moonMovie of Elvis' smile, & seeMe in the morning, wearing bells.

There is no known cure for being aPoet, but the affliction can beMaintained as a functioningRecluse with neuronal Modification, a few, flashing scalpels

& incisions & watercolor blood:The world is a swallowedPearl. Sure, you'll cough upFeathers, but what spiritual reliefTo fly again, or to think you are flying.


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The Eyes in the Trees

To distinguish wood from bone a frightening spiderLaces echoes with listening. Jaw, a chunk of baked Clay, teeth like a rain of stones, her hinge

Rust sanity. Sun dust, skin cells, plaster atoms, visualMemories of sand, immersed with the last years of Miles Davis. Her eyes slide into my eyes, elastic

Gamma. Beneath my skin cloth her ghostsSwim with breakable mermaid skeletons. Cars are painful, wailing walruses in gray light.

Necessity browns the crust, & the trees. HerHoly stare from hellish, spiritual Complications occurs after the brightest fire.


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Tao, Tea, & Clove Cigars

Tao sprinkles shit in El Paso's last sands.Regulatory politics, an agenda to

No yes, to silence, to scythe my fetal Bliss with sharp, conscious quartz.

Tao secretion floods Cairo's wet streets.Throwing rocks, cans, fruits at slow

Tanks, gorillas lurch thru thigh-highWater from tapped & endless pyramids;

Citizens jump onto soft mummies & hump,Crash tourist-store glass, loot before

Hoses spray. Tao & taffy weatherPatterns roll across Amerika's mica-string

Harp. Magnetic vibrations rip the tails of fishy Pineal glands from pressed, gray clay.

Purple tadpole tears attach like droplet Earrings to cheeks, fashion for the slaughtered

Consumers. Tao eats synthetically poisonedPopcorn, pisses corn syrup, whitens or yellows,

Tao salts our ugly, vintage toes. We are controlled byChaos, the broad, hopeless, changing picture. Tao drives

A golden, bulletproofMercedes. Tao flexes & splinters our whore wood hours.

Winter gulls are made of mirror shards. Radio frequenciesFluctuate, insanely, above our cities. Tao is a crisp, sweet

Tea. AmerikaIs liberty, a black clove cigar Tao smokes.


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Unprepared

My mother has a living will per medical issues, &My sister & I also have power of attorney. BeforeAlzheimer's hits, she takes care of legal things, prepaidBurial, tasks of death made easy, or easier. EverythingThru her lawyer, signed & sealed.

We have nothing signed & sealed, darling, & I've alreadyTold you I am NOT throwing yr ashes into a valley inVirginia. I will be ash, too, without stipulation. SpreadMe where our dog shits in the side yard, I smirk.We sip our coffee & sigh, laughing like insane, married

Paupers without legal wills. What is mine is yrs & viceVersa, as it is now. The worth of this poem! Our agingFaces & scars, ruptured minds. Tired, shreddedSpirituality. Beings, Reasons. A reality plank. Love. Every disappearing

Quantum comma. What the sun wants us as.Back to earth, consider centuries. Consider Generations of our DNA, forward & backward.There are no ghosts. There is no Mystery. We are always atoms.


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Self Portrait as God

The 7 Deadly Sins Represent my own 7Appendages: head, arms,Legs, cock, poetry. StandingOn a burning plank, wrapPoetry from gamma radiation,Pearl encased in a fireproof lead soul.The horizon, soft as fetal skin. OrbitingClouds smell like menstruating girls.I said cross when I meant to say ash.So trees drop mammals with sin brains.I absolve all instigation into the constructionOf flat-screen televisions, swords in wars,Tragic, human inevitability. Protons popFrom a simple word I'd discarded afterCareful thought but shot out anyway as aMistake.


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The First Poem Written After My Mother's Death

April 3rd, a wonderful hospice nurse, SisterSomebody, suggests my sister & I go home,Get cleaned up, eat something, be with our

Spouses, that maybe our mother is clinging to Life because she knows we're there & can'tLet go. “Her heart is still strong,” Sister

Tells us, “& yr presence is maybe whatShe's latching to. You are not bad childrenFor leaving for a few hours.”

We agree to this. We agree on a timeTo return. We both live 10 to 15 minutesFrom Sunrise Assisted Living, on the bay,

Where my mother has resided for a year & a Half, Alzheimer's. From the hospital a fewDays earlier, according to her living will,

She's in her own room on the bay, dying, eased by Morphine drops. A narcotic gel is routinelyRubbed on her small wrists, too. Hospice, us.

I am becoming very sad writing this poem;A sad, old man on a stormy, Tuesday, late-April Morning. My sister continues to burst into tears.

The hospice nurse Is absolutely Right.


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Blue Butterflies

I'm eating a tuna sandwichWith cheese chunks & chipsIn our living room watchingHD television. There's a grayDish on my garage that swallowsSpecialized signals from orbiting Satellites, which is actually aFrightening technology that Works. I don't know what theHell is on television, I rarely do.The corporate military-industrialComplex controls every fuckingAtom on the screen. But being aZombie is easy, there are soft buttons,& news announcers are circus barkers.Chemical, musical commercials flood ourNeurons, good zombie. Yet a zombieCan stand & peel the scabs & wounds,Rise up stairs with new, fresh skin,& write a blue butterfly poem.A huge, blue butterfly crucified likeChrist on the cross. Clay-coloredGirls weep dandelion seeds & tree sporesIn the weird wind spiraling into a Black-hole vagina made of clouds.Pits in the sperm. One blue butterfly Makes two, then prism sky & prismEverything under the lame, goddamn sun.


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A Chimpanzee Wears a Small Rainbow Hat

The awful, pale eyes of my dying mother. Cinnamon Dusk on Lake Erie's edgeless curvature. Paper-waspSkeleton nest in high eave. Unexplainable ladybugs Swarm on our windows as moths powder them. Re-Flect upon deflection, the softer horrors, like bills &Money, bullshit situations, CNN idiocy. Fires slurpTongues from the lips of bells. Amerika's doom inDoomless eternity, there's a larger picture & aSadder future as we end to begin nothing. GhostsAre disgustingly quiet. Logic ghosts the ghosts,& the swirl of the stars ghosts the ghosts.Microns of skin mirrors, dust fromDinosaur days, the rust in the rain from Alien secretions eons ago; symphonic Tenor drum ejaculate escalates like snakesInto the clouds.


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Ron Androla lives in Erie, Pennsylvania with his wife Ann.

This book commemorates the last publication of books ever by the publisher of MiPOesias Magazine. She is grateful it was by Ron.


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Cover Art courtesy of Michelle Buchanan.Publisher/Editor Didi Menendez.

www.mipoesias.com

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Quantum Aquarium

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