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The Deconstruction Song of Henry Avignon

Henry is an incomplete text, a half glass of milk spoiled on the window sill where sugars lift to unfurl on a sea breeze marching past in boots of salt.

Avignon2

Henry walks along a dark street; no, in the deep mud of a cane field; no, there is an ancient Willow tree half-choked by the shade of a taller Oak looming above us all…except the soul is the pond’s skein. Even that a violent storm farther south is nearing by the syllable, everywhere is reflected. The sky cannot escape. Henry was born to reflect the sky’s daybreak blues: crows pass over like the moon.

Henry is seeds of dawn in palms of earth. The long rein of darkness extinguishes and blue embers catch fire to apples, blinding worms.

4

Henry is alive among roughened elements. Winter’s heavy boots trail mud, the green carpet is vividly brown; each bud is a match and sudden conflagration of hope.

Henry is blue curtains of morning drawn; strands of delicacy, fibers of light; fingers of the hour sound the sitar of wakeful solitudes.

Henry is silent when the moon speaks; knowing night is nature’s psalm, blessing the desperate with sleep; the broken with blue salves of sustenance.

He

Henry is strung up, cauterized by traps; child beaten to a pulp of fear, of brokenness; immigrant self decomposing along borderlands of incarcerated souls, amassing.

Henry is is clear torpor, a violin’s tear; bow of the mind outstretched, amending the strings of wind, a sonata of urgency: ripples on darkest pond, waves of malaise.

Henry awakened with a potters wheel where yesterday were hands and lightning where the night before letters managed to speak a word–agony.

Henry is one of billions. A woman and child hurriedly gulp a refuse of unsanitary water, choking on us all; the horrific tar of tomorrows excrement, they pass death as food.

HAV

Henry hears well all visible things. Eyes like two thundering skies, twin storms scattering rain. The complexion of luscious is rainbow: warm sun amid momentary moistures. Lips purse gentle around wings, her butterfly flesh. Feats of pleasure take flight, find rest. Only distance belies this culmination of satisfactions. Hearing how she tastes, proboscis mouthing a slow word: saliva.

Henry is equal parts wall and graffiti, prescription and pill; his cerebellum tattooed with billing account numbers: 54649-31223. Life amounts are past due. He balances on the wings of vultures in flight, patterned after Kierkegaard. Debt is a glass of cold that aids the swallow of anxiety (is hearing the timber fall, the anviling of the nails, the ache of those being remaindered).

HA

Henry slips on the black ice of a white church that will be the last site remaining at America’s gravest end. White man cracks his skull on the alter, bleeds red; black man taps his soul on the pulpit, bleeds red. The difference between a future and all failure, between agreement and apocalypse, is the mandible of a savior in the cross-hairs of our darkest legacy.

Henry is back from the sea and rough with barnacles. His eyes gathered wisdom, the lunar tendencies, from being among reef and shark. Swimming is in the rehearsal for his funereal, performing well. Passion, vertical depth, evidence of infinity grazing the notes of the song’s movement: unbearable rhythms across the page; flesh concealing a fathom of more. Back from the sea…the body tender…the lips salty.

Henry is (deus ex machina) man! my cape is made of AgION! Not afraid of campy (von) lobacter jejuni any more than deaths mindwash! though i’m prone to posterity anxiety around certain bacterrorias, i mojo the disability chic with bush lux. its a batbelt fool, drooged in sonar-shifting paint. all the interruptive contrablulations in the reduxionary can’t make a bioneer out of a carbon sink cogged with cold bananas.

8

Henry is (in) the third degree…master of mixed verbal arts representing the United State of Debate, specializing in inter-textual striking techniques. For years he trained under Shapiro and now, a veritable arsenal of postmodern forms, weighing in naked at over 10 thousand books, wearing the agnostics dull-gray trunks. Attention please: A virtual-cage Faceoff has already begun.

Henry works the streets of memory, prostituting animosity to John’s dangling big sticks of Black Nag Champa. Then along comes the Om in a seersucker suit of scarlet polyester oozing argyle at the collars, mournful flowers dying in a desert nether of under watered zeitgeist below a heavy belt of copper wires and lead pipes. Henry works the night, the angles without light, the streets of dead delight sowing seed.

10

Henry knows all flows, independent of exterior forces, are key to the survival of (we): Air, Water, Blood & Thought. Never without a need to breath or thirst for quenching freedom. All the names of love, the pains of living by will, we blot the ink (we) bleed.

Henry is meant as critique of dying; another random act of identity in a crises of kindness toward fellow sufferers. Forgive in him the putrefaction of words.

Henry is the boy who died beneath the tire of a truck in 1979. He is the young man of 1994; then…raped at gunpoint in New Orleans for choosing to ascertain drugs from evil men. He is the Man who destroyed his marriage and nearly his mind. He is the old man who took his life far away one year ago and failed to lose it. Henry is, I am, we are the same need to survive…this recovery…is the backside of a cracked mirror.

Henry walks tentatively in the forest, hesitating before scenes of what seem like inevitable peril and looming discomfort: creatures scamper like worries, shadows cluster and disintegrate like civilizations, on the horizon a strange colony of skin and kinetic energy waves a bevy of small, green shrines at the palm’s end of long, knotty thoughts. Feigned fear is nearest where the soul leaps from the undecided mind.

Henry can tell by the dawning of new enchantments around the old places that daylight has stricken the hour with interminable radiance. The guitar is wearing red today in lieu of the warmth diffusing the blue on these walls we share like ears and compassion. Morning is our tapestry of windows to be opened. The cello of urges and wind stands readied by a trumpet of rustling branches to make jazz.

Henry saw on the stream, reeling as ideas in mid consciousness, an abstracted luminance wrangles with a dark canvass lurking just below the gesso of a higher noon, paying no mind to gravity or other such formalities; water believing in chaos, making provisions for immeasurable magnitude and irreconcilable patterning; water being itself: a natural bronze of crackling fire when you can see her. Have faith…

Henry sat by his reflection motionlessly as it played in the stream moving ceaselessly beyond him. Feeling the water’s gleam; Basho bathing in caesura. Nearby or close to his heart Henry witnessed the passing of a love, the drowning of hands that once saved him from himself. Now, a potter without clay, a workplace without resources. Parts of him swimming with parts of trees.

14

Henry drank from a well of knowing and quenched only destruction. But the well is fed by a nearby inlet of unknowing; trickles in dark bedrock formed by millions of fluid sensations gliding like toes across wet moss. His ten instincts to fall, to drown in the secret of the well, to grow silent as the truth of death, to taste in the saturated idol the cool damp of blind rectitude.

Henry is an untampered bottle of Mirtazapine not yet abused; a leafy scab on the psychological amputation; Handel’s Sonata in D Minor wearing thin as mirror.

Henry sees that eyes do not have governments; tongues are wild and without law; the heart lacks society and “citizenry” is the artificial construct of civility.

Henry awoke in a subterranean culture of fear at the moment of subcutaneous rupture; an aneurysm of insufficient analogies: man and beast or man and animal. He awoke in a violent struggle for hierarchal positioning within a civilization of himself: his species of dark inclinations. He awoke to the accumulation of processes for dying at birth. This…we call life.

Henry thought about small boned bodies while a Starling enraged a Robin bird in a nearby field patch of grassy silence romping with bees and flumes of dusty white wishes or salutations. He wondered: how does so much pass through the needle thin border-cross of the eye without getting stuck? Then he choked on the small bone and blinked.

Henry saw a yellow flower with a black eye pushing up through snow. His first instnict was “this is proof.” We pick her to live and everything changes.

Henry is not perverse when he imagines grasping desperately a rough trunk around the waist, clean as the day he was born, miles deep into the tree line of his fluttering lashes; forest which conceals a dark preponderance of ancient freedoms. The tree is closer to the heart of a crucifixion than the ax. How the phallus bleeds at the barest contact like a bent nail in the wrist.

15

Henry knows where there is a dead bird. In the countryside around Lake Ontario there are abandoned wells. Maggots feed on a Eucharist of possum flesh splayed by a passing motorist. The death of animals festers like our human nostalgia for that time before our child was taken by the war. The rancid smell of regret in the air

Henry prefers dreaming in shades of Nietzsche to Kierkegaard and waking below a sun high over dead gods. God was ill…the moment humanity relegated (its) status to sycophant. All good jokes have a punchline and come to a sudden end. Or mankind is the delinquent voices and God a schizophrenic wandering the metaphysical alleyways of Chaos.

Henry had a friend who has since fallen to his death from a Brooklyn skyline under a black moon–new mountain of night, steepest dark of the month for hearts that vanish into the shadows of depression. He was black: African American: originally from Kenya. He suggested Henry name his first child White-Guilt Avignon. Henry had once begged his friend to ensalve him.

Henry remembers falling through the pond ice at night: shock of engaging absurdity. A cutting into cheek and forehead by sharp retort of death’s icy blue laughter. Jeers of bright stars floating by the flailing of arms like gasps for breath just out of reach. Time had broken through. Time too was cold, slowing down and her efforts crystalized and glistened on his eyelids that never fully thawed.

1

Henry waved his hand over the broken glass. A heavy moon had splintered against the abandoned green and loss of the eyes of a man too long by the river. High above a tressle rattled a black coal of commerce. All night, they fished for reasons to leave: sunrise; northbound forgiveness; guilt heading south. How had he known him? Why had they finally met? Wondering if deja vu is feeling what is better left forgotten?

Henry loves whatever enters and leaves the world in such a way to enable a brighter survival for other’s. To this end, with all of his conscience and passion he hopes to die for someone, crumble in hands with the drama of seed, wash against a drowning moment as flotsam; the gilded wreckage of an orbit around the white heart. With all of his blood, language, and vision he sets himself ablaze to keep warm.

Henry remember’s reading from Antonin Artaud in “Heliogabalus,” that the anarchist would say: neither God nor master but I alone. Why is “I” capitalized along with God but not master (who,master, would fall under God but not gods – also not capitalized)? That to accept no law as governor of the spirit is to impose a brand of tyranny. Power of the depressed to shed black skin…power of the lost to remain so.

7

Henry asks what season is meant to rally the spark of life from aloneness. There is nothing to bear us from winter to spring but a funereal chill. The strangling weight of grief, like a wet hand of snow upon leaves upon a deeper change at the cellular level of unknowable potentiates. Or this hand upon the mouth of her pleasure’s volume that swells between us like dark soil after drenching rain.

Henry sees all are living to dodge their flicker of candle now showing in a smoky glass. Step over the cracks in the plan, avoid contemplating the abyss; to actually choose! But turn instead onto the darker alley, savor a momentary lostness. If it will divert attention from the exit strategy in the black frock by the white lamp staring at the ground.

Henry sees everything has already happened in the near river. Cupped hands are broken vessles where time is concerned. Petals float on like prayer to somewhere. Upstream a bridge, beneath which rolls darker water over a stone of unknowable eternity. Each day along its way to quench all thirsts, the water runs out and down and away, drowning another child to reflect a another phase of the moon.

Henry had lost everything until sorrow took him in. House without gables or facade; structurally unsound, though unlikely to aquiesce for ruin. Enormous door painted a shade of woe made deeper by each visitor’s shadow. Broken windows like such tumultuous eyes: too old for love yet too young to blossom. At a tragic point of apex along the ancient cul-de-sac, sorrow took him in, held him and let him live.

2

Henry was blinded by stones throne by the children he was (over the years before). For this expression he stands at a calamitous edge, everything around him constellating. Darkness plays an indestructible boundary. Each eyelid is another marblized surface of some immovable grudge against god. But his skin clearly sees the warmth of a sun setting down across the earth its formidible and nameless hope.

Henry, on a walk by a stream through forest more dense than the sky’s blue was permeating, he spied an antiquated bathtub tilting on three lion paws and a fourth plummet of jagged steel. A cast iron basin, fiery as flox with rust, there, waded in the stream, filled with uncommon levels of acridity: a green water of death. One ancient fern laid back, floating, branches slit, opened to exile. A Floracide!

Henry found it roped off, signaled for demolition. Built around 1900, standing erect for pride alone, five stories of meatpacking history with praiseworthy accumulations of hard decay and transparent ruggedness. All of the corroded gallantries, a dead sea of last century’s economy, now molded relics and buried lives; the clock on the broken wall stopped for 100 years.

Henry asks who? Who is more hungry for change… Martin Luther King, Jr.? Barack Hussein Obama? The daughters of China? Can we know the answer? Mother’s Of Gaza? Machetes of Rwanda? Mortality rates in Sub-Saharan Africa? Can we hear the answer? The exiled clitoris? The blackened face of the Taliban’s hijab? The stolen boy in a pedophile’s basement? Who is more hungry than Nature…

Henry thought ants to be the Earth’s calvary; scouts to surge past barrier walls of the human domicile, blending with the cells in our veins on a mission of returning a dark favor, ignoring our instruments of crushing death and the springtime glooms of poison, wallowing in our calm resentments. Yesterday I noticed them weaving between the letters on a keyboard. Surrounding the vowels with ease like a circling of black wagons, with gestural motions toward particular consonants; then came, a migrant flock in waves as if riding some ethereal current of intention. Summer’s light was pouring through the window, glistening their onyx dementia as they plied a few words for us: “All is not a coincidence.”

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Henry believes thought to be a jagged root vaguely finding bottom (if ever); the truth being one hundred times deeper than the tangly human nexus of potential to reach sustenance in a single lifetime. But there is a history of our follies and triumphs in tomes heavy as the oceans and wide and the heavens written in a doubled edged tongue of equal parts origin and memory. Neither is of any value to fate or death.

Henry saw her across a world, standing there tentatively as bamboo in a monsoon. Her eyes shifting as fumes around flames; hunger rising as heat off a blacktop path through the desert of senses. When “August” is a syllable for lust and “sweat” past tense of the verb to lay, she is a morning mist that burns off by the high noon of his longing.

Henry happened upon a throwing stone, a skipping rock, flat as the deep blue sky above the highest treetop. It’s edges were geared for cutting by day and grinding at night. It was pale as the clam shells and logic of sea foam rolling over his toes, stiffening the wet hair on his legs and neck; it was there before him like a familiar statue or the voice of God.

Henry was blinded by stones throne by the children he was over the years, he stands at a calamitous edge, everything around him constellating. Darkness plays an indestructible boundary. Each eyelid is another marblized surface of some immovable grudge against god. But his skin clearly sees the warmth of a sun setting down across the earth its formidible and nameless hope.

Henry had had lost everything until sorrow took him in. House without gables or facade; structurally unsound, though unlikely to aquiesce for ruin. Enormous door painted a shade of woe made deeper by each visitor’s shadow. Broken windows like such tumultuous eyes: too old for love yet too young to blossom. At a tragic point of apex along the ancient cul-de-sac, sorrow took him in, held him and let him live.

Hen

Henry was driving across the broader world when he came upon a giant skeletal tree wedged between the vastly greener bounty of Nature’s usual fortune. He was not then asleep to be dreaming, yet at the pinnacle of the ashy, wooden monster was a weather-wracked red door, far off its hinges, impaled on a petrified branch, left graciously open to allow for the passage of wind, birds and light…

Henry imagines on a micro scale there is a warming of his bio-globe; his brain stem, like a glacial stairway to the sun is running out of steps to avert all thought from blowing out like seven black trumpets across the grass and gravel of his destiny. DNA is a spiral. DNA is a staircase. We are wide enough to ascend or descend. Below the grass is saturated with chemicals and above the sky is on fire.

Henry has saved one life from the conflagration of race hatred. A beautiful, dark skinned human was pushed into a fire at the center of a most dangerous myth. The always perfect red heart was sluggish with infernal smoke. They could hear death’s violins high and stern, up wind. He leaped a gray plumage. The pin on a grenade of compassion was undone; a brief minute of ash and dreaming eyes. Only then was he free…

Henry awoke in a crowded area without windows. He felt symbolically inferior to all those gathering. Others registered in his heart as ‘we.’ Again notions of ‘us’ were securing a persistent presence. Because ‘one’ is greater than a multiplicity of independents–anarchy. Finally the group coheres, becoming a fragmented whole that projects shadows of a maddening totality across the four walls of his cell.

Henry awoke in temporary mind, where notes of lightness and darkness crept along a trellis or musical scale. Feeling the water of a blue shallow of thought; it had rained brilliantly overnight. Moment to moment he savored the pulsating of a distant metronome that was answering equally to good and evil; desire and passion; sign and sense; love and defilement. Moment to moment he was surrounded by changes in himself.

Henry

Henry was in a half-light of morning existence; place of auras, where the mind necessarily entertains most external conditions vaguely; then, discriminating against all details equally and heavy with surreality and the saturation of dark energy, resembling an enlightened moment of air just before thunder cracks us free of the static of dream. His eyes peeled like citrus, spritzing the shadows with echoes of insinuated light.

Henry saw when the sun of awareness broke from the crowd of clouds beyond a near window, his mature Pathos, dragging its complex of roots and tap shoots across the startled room right to his daze where it proceeded with delicate irony to water his body: the violin of Mozart’s Concerto #3 poured from the dusty instrument from his closet that was lifted on bow like vines and held divinely by leaf like palms.

Henry is eating poetry and it tastes nothing like (him).

Henry is a dark cloud of fleshy ash lifted on gale forces, ricocheting off emboldened silences that work for uncanny death. Henry is the fate of the white elephant that does not see, but only is such beauty, being alive. On a morning of white mists crackling the desert sky, a crown of damp heat waving like wounded flags overhead,a human animal has come. Greed hacks off the face, splatters hope for any natural cause.

Henry is out walking along a dark street; no, in the deep mud of a cane field; no, there is an ancient Willow tree half-choked by the shade of a taller Oak looming above us all…except the soul is the pond’s skein. Even that a violent storm farther south is nearing by the syllable, everywhere is reflected. The sky cannot escape. Henry was born to reflect the sky’s daybreak blues: crows pass over like the moon.

Henry believes the hands are all five senses. Go ahead, ask the person you touch: can you taste the wildflower honey on my thumb? Can you hear these fingers whisking the strands of bronze up and over your ear, as now I may whisper by my tongue, a definition for sultry; tongue that is salty and dark as the deep sea oyster; lips that are musky with a trenchant hunger for drowning.

Henry is feathered in a suspicious manner, not speaking fearsomely enough to be ratified alive among cyber-junkets in the lurch rattling death.

Henry is so vain, he probably thinks her pain is about him. O’ Henry, poor Henry, costumed as they prefer a tapestry of innocuous eyelids pulled down over clarity.

Henry is the occupation of a foreign nation under a moon shared by the world at night when shielded from true light the condition of facts is unknown.

Henry thinks he is the conductor of waves. Arms crash against a contrary evidence, five fingered tips dive in double helix of gulls to the caw-maw of their metronome.

Henry is a mouth full of water being airlifted to a war torn zone of thirsts where clear passages have been cut and death smiles from ear to ear.

Henry is trapped between the violin and the audience, between the lips of a deer and the ears of a truck advancing on the night; the pulse of death quickening.

Henry is running contrary to the fiction of survival, divided into arms and legs with disproportionate egos and voices that echo the materiality of nothingness.

Henry has lost the right to kill himself, to die of unnatural causes, or to lay invisibly on a bed of silence sheeted with white reams of a resplendent alphabet. To the East and West of ignorance there lies the point of access and exit for the sun that will guide our species to either light or dirt. Nature will not fret our destruction. Who among us would rue the death of a cancer eating him alive this instant.

3

Henry is the surprise of blood on the body and the hand that finds itself as minimalist subject matter in a canvass study of the motions red requires to exit.

Henry accidentally ran over a capitalist. He was following too closely their hybrid code of ethics. There was a lightning bolt in his hand where once he found only impatience. Stopping is hard, surveying the wreckage more so. He found (instead of men) a water basin riddled with bullet holes surrounded by children who gave in to this thirst. His own mother’s heart was cold in his hand. It began to rain.

Henry remembers the night was a glittering crown bejeweled with sad eyes; crown that desperation placed firmly on his head; crown that rose above marshlands on a decaying root, choked by metals and synthetic fibers. His tongue swelled with strange alchemy. Anger razed the funeral procession; hard boiled tears over a lost format of existence. He rolled across the old countryside, vast with regrets and rising karmic hills.

Henry had demanded or imagined ‘crucifixion’ was a crowded event not just a tongue twisted around words; not a private affair of the heart in its literal sense. But on any given day, rising above his humanity like a a handful of seeds thrown to the sky, a veritable moon and incorrigible sun set firmly, soaked to the bone with a vinegar of fear that poured from the cracked skull of some incendiary Adam.

Henry is imaging a moment: a man wounded senseless by war; a woman feeling the internal flower who can only project a Cyclops standing at garden center between the molded fence posts and her thighs. Both man and woman live behind a succession of curtains. They are veils concealing a celestial realm of well being. A man, a woman: the hermaphrodite, Ishtar, descending into a makeshift hell of psychic peril.

Henry remembers Papa’s Waltz: the metamorphosis of Roethke; the corporeal image of an endurable tension between a ruined father and his ruinous poet-sun. At twelve years of age Henry learned of his father’s accidental dance. Space and time from then seemed only to decay even as successions of momentously punctuated pictures of existence burn with indelible proof of some evolution.

Henry reached black dahlia, extending their myth, translated by a force stronger than its root, lifted by her conceit: five phalanges of light.

Henry is blue. Aqua skin and the drum; tremor of oceanic thrush and vowel; lung of light suspended in the grieved muse; this mourning: my black starling, my dune.

Henry imagines the earth has green eyes. Each third of a visibly elusive stare: sun, moon and my throbbing longing. Sage moth, elder butterfly and rain meet in the web of sky by day and by night, each others voice more unique a moment of the riddle, languishing for solidarity and singular indifference; each a genuine perpetuity that belongs to the day, to the night: all is visible, all is silent, all is beauty…

Henry imagines human is a way of traveling, a mode of discovery, a methodology for explanations; a finite pivot in the machinations of cosmic execution and vital. Or human is systemic: an aberration existing as a unique dementia on the periphery of universal experience. Or human is a series of metaphors for psychological states and intuitions about fear of death and desire for sex. And human is brutal…

Henry was born halfway between 1971 and Highway 61 to a proud pair of unplowed fields who remain, without shadows and so without guilt to this day, raised on cocks crooning renaissance far from Machiavelli’s Prince; untitled, their only masterpiece, he learned every 40 acres belongs to some other time or state of mind.

Henry has never published and will not remember being seen or screened through elder-eyes cringing and crazed. In a bag of sounds he sucks, gasping, ugly, unnamed, out of flux.

Henry is a collection of floater ribs, wisdom teeth, doubled joints and hand remains of ambidextrous poets none could ignore given Sophie’s choice.

Henry tastes sweet the succulent sap on his crucifix; ivory pus of middling fatigues oozing between porous sheets, the burning lines, on his tongue, his lips, his cheek and wink wink.

Henry is CUT to veritable shreds of acumen. To many brilliant directors for one lowly actor…cut! Cut! The unfinished thought is night blooming jasmine.

Henry is in line at M.O.M.A readying himself to bear witness to the unstable aperiodic behavior of tomorrow’s genius: “combusted enamel and velocity on ether.”

Henry is a narrative that reads like the French passport and notebook of a Moroccan militant with a miraculous weaponry and heart full of negritude.

Henry was diagnosed by a monocle to be suffering from myopia. A description was written for a bottle of pills. The partial, fourth-wall observer decreed “take all of these and your stigmata will no longer bleed.” To which I replied, “by these unnatural laws you obey I would have up and died yesterday.”

Henry is moving to St Augustine: city of Godot circa 413. He peddled loneliness: the great snake oil anti-psychotic. Rome again was rotting on stage 4 with Gothitis; the holy populous again set fire to the lung of existential desire and staked a lofty claim. But everyone knows by now and then a village madman is more than a foil for a bum.

Henry is crumbles of stone, the wail and the moan; sinew of shell shocked nerve stretched to a far curb; sporadic as shots fired at all white schools; cruel as the familiar shoe in a backyard pool; honest as carnage in black and white; And heavy as a flat bed of salt hauled in to censor a field of amassed dead.

12

Henry is the love stained vinyl seat enslaving and sliding beneath (you on sweaty seams); a coastal land of geriatric lies; a posted land where rusted red toxic waste barrels are dumped among ivory white amputations and yellow wallpaper on which so much animosity depends.

Henry is who? Others presume he deserves no business, (is not) to be or not to be spoken to…but around or through. Is just 1 aberration of the Human Nation. Left unexamined even 1 turns the flour sour, the blood into to wining bouquets of air born disease: meaning, remedy, fairness, ideology.

Henry is a Darwinist at dawn, a Communitarian by day, agnostic while the sun lays down her black particulars atop the hour and Marx’s girl after dark when democracy can wear a slinky dress and still squabbles less about “I know so and who are you minus we.”

Henry is coming for the jack of hearts, for impure forms in fits and starts, hungry to undermine a sea that floats a ship of fools, to free all navigators from captains from generals from gruel.

Henry is a sword swallower like you…try so hard to digest what it’s like to be here without a ticket to the republic of bones where all expect you’ve complimented the professors to get; got on about their looks not undercut the one-eyed hierarchy of your books (do you) Mr. Jones regret the volatile politics of your first threat? Well do you, Mr. Jones.

Henry likes a stiff gin and echelon(ic) to shake off the aristocracy he smokes like black Maui chronic, or a Dirty Pythagorean on Mandelbrot’s rocks hold the olive branches and he doesn’t do shots of Elite which meticulously drag him into the “perfect state” of defeat.

Henry is not simple, was not born under any ruling star, not easily molded around play-dough skepticism. He is a mouthpiece for blue chip minions, a codpiece hiding onions that made Socrates weep. Rarely engaging down this deep where unnaturally, subversives swim and prefer to sleep.

Henry is a strategy for reciprocity that is relative, not stress free. Hollow is where the bullet left his wound to define it as love; to accommodate its grievous need for the flesh of foreigners to Athenian Democracy

Henry asks is there such a being: a compassionate emeritus? One among the asphodels whose countless days are expended emerging as benefit to others? One who is opaquely a scholar of emotional integrity? perhaps the chair of a rare department at the hidden school of humanitarian manifestation? Would such a person hulk gracefully as ancient olive trees or be deft, evocative and densely soft as the river at highest noon?

9

Henry is diving into the bell’s theater of oppression after a concept for the malaise of practicing a poetry in search of what matters to so few. Realizing that less consider the air we consume each moment sustains all such maddening pursuits. To undercut ones overall mood while bolstering the heart’s production of ink is a profoundly ugly game of give and take.

Henry is a search of elemental ways and means. What closes tighter each day around our time is Nature. Notice how tongues vocalize the (T) of “Today:” by clamping off the flow of air entering the mouth, river of tomorrow’s light, with the permanency of a sandbag. Born poised to bare witness we are turned away by a force or farce of knowledge, gods and devils notwithstanding.

Henry hears a cricket cry. Blossoms dry petals of honey on moon strand. Hours thunder by; thrice, roots and grass are lit by the eyes, blind.

Henry is one eye refusing to blink, with tongue enough to bridge the isle of sorrows to a mainland of words; the burnt day at dusk cools.

Henry feels language as enormity; cascade of moments, id of atoms, animus of God, all of us: subjects in a run away sentence without predicate.

Henry is laundering the earliest graves, sifting monosyllabic shards of shattered language, slit fingers dripping ink; blood blots in the sentiment of deep soil.

Henry is mauled birds under the paws of cliche; how time passes at a rate of the enjoyment of life. Three children die each second of the day.

Henry is running for the Noble Place Prize. Believing wherever one is belongs to whyever one must be there: from “The Manifesto of Existential Darwinism.”

Henry is solidifying a most impoprtant list: “Top 10 Books To Be Buried With Just In Case We’re Allowed To Read In The Afterlife.”

Henry is intoxicated…a dream of a valley between peaks, embracing the distance; a stream of pollenated light; exhale of yellowed memory and flowers.

Henry is a quartet of mornings in late April, the pastel pollens of a disapearing tribe, the walls of a parisian salon in 1905 and miasmas of profound light.
Henry is statistically familiar with fire-heads and chumps down low on death row. All hands and hell hounds, holding bars and howling at blue oasis hung from perpetual night. Gunshot of electric intelligence surrounding every move. Angst of victims chopping the black block of marble air into equal but smaller points of reference.

Henry is a montage of game theories each more complicating than the next each eventually a statement: death is nice for selfish reasons and life a predictable way of capitulating.

1

Henry is a tic without a face, all ten toes and no tribe, a singular place with diminutive value, generosity without co-operation. He is a demonstrative drawback to disobedience; one after an ( ) other; full as non-conformity becomes a mile beyond one’s own base camp. He is a scar once unimaginable, a hunger for ever unmanageable, the feces of Aristotle feeding feral maggots and its viral.

Henry never willed his return to the scene of a crime in the boroughs. He cannot prove the effects of a million forked words on the evolution of a vex. But to (un)build gross instinct, to recognize and rattle a double crossing breed who hyper-imaginate their heels when inhumanity and greed do convene.

Henry is a physical body unstrung, a broken guitar’s neck, a surrenderer to sanctity, murdered by the page, canvas, and vocal range that rise along copper hair and nylon wire; interwoven tufts grappled by pulleys up the Andes; pinnacling, youthful spine jutting to oblivion.

Henry is a day in July, 1952, wondering what kind of man? Funeral fanatic, a farcical victim, passive-aggressive impostor, undignified cynic, prodigal boy in a grown Hamlet.

Henry is the rise and significance of the judges right arm; the essential significance of To See, To Take of irony that art history would be different had Mona been lost.

Henry is one tempest in a tea pot tearing at a leafy lot, to the core, to the pores of hypocritical thought, to shattered things and broken means steeping.

Henry paid 3 Shillers to say: what would pass for song in life must first by death be paraphrased. Immortality, we trace the insignificance of breathing ‘this’ air.

Henry is asking God for the fever to re-lent, for the strength to open the window and crack the vent. When three fears road by on a dead white horse he felt life and creation and nothing of remorse.

Henry is handsome as a painting by Picasso circa. 1913; red as one (3rd) line of Basho; alone, without his Platero for a lifetime and now disavowed by the rejected teenager and a furrowed brow.

Henry is a brown moth with stubby fingers, wrestling for a path to the blue moon; a fan’s blade rounds off the day tethered to treatment(s) by them both: nausea and delight.

17

Henry is more a carriage of characters than cleverly disguised; is unfounded as any rumor in the trenches of war; like a six shooter with five vowels.

Henry is a prologue that begins ‘The End;’ footsteps leading into a night of blizzards, where snow falling is a gestapo and its forecast the execution of dawn.

Henry is motionless among movements, listening to arias argue their intents with a blathering mob of incurable laments, surrounded by chairs and wigs and darkness.

Henry is the clever placement of weapons, a closeted procurement of elements and the incontrovertible accumulation of remnants with a heart made of poetry.

Henry is the black skin around the heart; undressed wound of a womb; the frenzy of devout moments in a fire devouring; a child with prosthetic legs of smoke running across a sky all white.

Henry knows the architectures are a moments pause, the mighty structures of all past now folding on themselves; wooden eyes ignite and each last breath turns to stone.

Henry is a sentence constructed out of vermilion and alabaster feathers clipped off a bird in mid flight; clipped to the absence of the bird now cast as earth.

Henry is lonely for more words like “clip.” Words that attach and detach in the same breath; words that make all the differ(a)nce in the world.

Henry walks a cemetery fence far from the sea by soundless halls of bone; undressing the heart, the body of shells, salted blood.

Henry leans into the shelter of shadow lines; sillouettes of trees that are nowhere kept and time has cut to the scorch.

 

Hen

To learn more about Henry Avignon, visit http://henryavignonart.viewbook.com/

http://henryavignonart.viewbook.com/

Regina Walker

 

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