"THE FIRST DAY"
I want words in macrostructures, I want language in every which way
Combinatorics of Control-Z, impossibility of Control-Y, no silence
Tacitness is madness, keep me where I am in the meantime, I wish
Text adds one more dimension to the stories I have to tell in sound
Is this a proper poem unless it is recited? No, it is also to be read
It is both synthesized in multiple dimensions at once always and forever
Pitch contour, formant, consonant, amplitude, frequency, register, tone
Timbre, phonetics, phonology, morphology, syntax, semantics, pragmatics
Circlings back into the ever-changing nature of God, trying to ascertain
Rain, snow, heat, spring, autumn, lives encountering lives no longer
Worlds, construction, everything, my Emacs window, the quality of
Meaning something. And finally, with a sigh, I just say "text."
That's all I need and all I ever have, a neglected segment of a soul
I do not dream a world, I live a world in the present of each day
So that nothing can stop my expressionist ravings, no matter how strange
I would say I don't care but my care is so deep I cannot ignore it
I write poems in stanzas of eight, twelve, sixteen, or twenty-four lines
This time I will be doing exactly the same thing, very purposefully
But with characteristics of prose necessarily borrowed in the process
The process of conveying this narrative, these blue streams of light
Which in my paradigm rhymed to form spaces initially but not consistently
Consistent rhythm is the only thing now, and the later-applied melody
My hope is that my audience hears my clear voice sung into the text
As loudly as the rapid clicking of my keyboard as I penned it

"THE NEXT DAY"
Determining my modes of being, having been not para- but parallelized
Repeat into me all that an illeist lists as having little possibility
Another morning, an open book, the probable reconstructions bracketed
Wet clay tablet only luckily preserved by a theorized pyroclastic flow
I wish, I wish, for clumsy lyrics in a circle of self-consumingness
Nosism in the classics, we just want you to see whatever may come next
Lexed and vexed alike, in self-interpretative cracks at who I've been
Non-objective, my impression, a stream of water murmuring these words
Cowries strung together, each one a simultaneous verse of exchange
We - not in nosist sense - will soon enough know each other's names
I scream my own, weed out my cursing, Nanshe hymn, reading back on it
Consciousness is not a stream but an ecological system to understand
Legalese befits not poetry, precise language was never my forte too
Even when I tried exact precision in description, it still haunted me
Benefit yourself in new ways, come forward and come back all alike
The former antediluvian psyche goes to bleed back through my face