Robert Fernandez



from The Poker Book




i.

Celerity. Trees are cuffed, or smoke at at their tips for the very cloud of what is permitted. Apatriates. And the blinding gun of a formality makes it easier to fix the attention on the center -- the center eye doesn’t want to close and this is where textiles, fashion, designers move to play. Trees in pavement. The hard hand, elegance eaten up and carried away by rats with iodine eyes. Sepal, she held herself on the lightening branches, curtained by need.





ii.

The light’s been an asterisk, some dusted glass to be driven upon and we have not discussed the priest's laurel / Compton. Health and irregular wreaths are the first in line. Summer draws filial lines in an obsessive preoccupation -- a differential slumber. Lumber, the chop of the peacock’s fan, excise and e-vanesce. The boy, necessarily white and dressed in cloven rose, sees his face out of his face.





iii.

Property is a volume, volute, similar to a property smokes volume if you listen. That a striated wing can be used as currency -- which was news. That the flotilla are round and infinite in number. That the washboard of omniscience has a bone to pick -- just fine, c’est la vie. Morning, round as a telephone booth in which you are assured to all that surrounds you, takes the light of your pyramidal gaze and turns it into a flag.






iv.

Little roses -- fast as children, gliding, welcome memorandum through the missile doors of an other. Welcome as settings of broken bones, as an ornithologist reaches flight. Notres of your byway, pack of lovers, afterthought of the rifle’s crack. All this is easiest, what skirts and tumbles and makes matters embarrassing is the informal hopscotch you play. Clearly, a child and always-is a child. As rose, you stand limited.






vii.


The wisteria of the club clasps the lips. The head of the spade follows up in its golden bough to insufflate -- what? Glass nanos, crumbs of the dove cartel. Pure as the driven, sleek as eucharist. Holy.






vi.

A rich translation considered by many -- Robaud via. Adonis -- to be clear as a mound builder’s aunt-hill resonance, utterly striking, neuvo, pure as the nature of temptation, wild as vineyard. The name, slow like a god, glancing up from the tile, and had a Swedish name. Its straw hat like eternity itself was alive.





v.

I knew the notes -- exactly which / who would be acted upon. The poker is wonderful, really, I do stand to correct myself but all the necessary elements are there. It is not as easily strange shoehorn, fierce as hyena, an anomic horn. When will it be time? Each, on its own, was a failure. . .





viii.

Has no fear --magesiu, shocks to make it even, your vowel -- Good! can’t say much else / respond to that. . .The rosin’s discussed. The felt of the billiard is like an organ -- the trumpet is well maintained and nothing speaks of need. These arrow heads, lucky to stand at the alter: veil, and a shotgun tree infected by wind.





ix.

The separatism of my number, which portends and expands nothing, which is a shuttle of blue glass riding the attention of a boy who’s gold earring has caught on the snow. Then it’s too soon to have a name for this, wait until the others see -- let them tell you -- thinking is ill-advised. Tromp l’oiel, a spread of the bones and sheer luck. Noted: a wisdom cornered without a mind; noted: a cartel of the sorcerer.






note:

pure as the nature of tempetation is Ashberry






Arrivant



Arrange the world so there is more singing in Shona
Less singing in Ndebele --


Which is a personal predilection
As hell is a private predilection


A bulldozer, voile, a rainbow thatch
There is silence in the exhausted theater


A macaw fed to a posse of wearwolves
And little hope of escaping the island


An angel shows its blade and Aha!
-- We’re getting somewhere, all this work


Evanescence of a dial tone,
Signal of an open scallop shell --


All of this was not in vain.