Backwards, sorta

4/19/2025 an excess of eggs and 3 previous

Too Verbose for Spring
Con/Jur/d,  4/18/2025

These poems, popping up like
daffodils, snowdrops, primrose 
pigsqueak, bluebells, pansy
our attempt to reduce the ambience 
the sheer physicality, short dresses
short pants, short sleeves, naked
after layer, layer, layers, the reborn
squeeze, we’re not the same
person, hardly the same species
we were when the Sun began its slow
turnabout, the ponderous hoarder of 

LIGHT

Now, the body abandoned  in snow
reconstituted and forced through
the dilated equinox aperture is birthed 
again with new untested tissues, to be
knocked around by thunderous
weather, joints and muscles

POP

We’ve heard the sap rising
felt the anxiety of buds, their
tentative, breath held, an evolutionary
bet, “Will we make it again this year?”
like we have for millennia, although
the punctuated sudden radical

DEATH

The squirming adaption, the rising
to the new conditions, is always
there, we wouldn’t want to do the whole
abiogenesis dance again, of course,
hot springs are nice, and we'll have to 
do it again someday, with or without
panspermia catalysts, never as soon 
as we think, and we'll be gone 
anyway, back to the silence of 
transitions, back into deep dark compost
back to no eye, no ear, no tongue
back into the undifferentiated

ONE

Without words or poems for the
season, lead this returning
with a simple somatic strut
a cadence of quiet, ready to

EXPLODE

pollinate Summer, fallow Fall
Winter is for these non-flirty
verbalizations, again we repeat
again we repeat! We are too
verbose for Spring.

WE HAVE A WEAKNESS FOR POSTPUNK BANDS — AND THEIR SERIOUS SYRUPY ALBUM COVERS — THIS IS ‘PINK HAT’ — ALBUM COVER STOLEN SOON — FROM CON/JUR/d

over/under
Con/Jur/d, 4/19/2025

The city shapes you/
we pretend boundaries
like skin and skul/ are
not porous/Brother Fly
is trapped on this side
of the screen/ tiny square
holes/ his down/, the entire
world outside, to which
his maggot neurons
wish to return/we’d
like to help/ his position
on the upcycling loop
remains suspect to this
specist, raised to believe
we're higher/ we're better/
hard not to believe 
putrescence gave birth
to this particularly handsome
member of the insect
phylum/ watching him
clean his eyes/whirl his
forelegs/

over/under/

“Realized we were all part 
of the same field” the teacher
said, and here it is/ i and the fly
are one/ even as we carry them out
to seek shit and die/ the invisible
vectors of disease are on our minds

we are not islands/we are ocean/
we are the undertow and the volcano
thrust through/in a recent interview
Bon Iver admits to being broken open by 
car commercials/ yesterday/ we had
a different reaction to an emotional
anime than our brother/ he wept/

we were apathetic/ it brings to the fore
how stories are constructed/ we visualize
the past as under/ the future as over/
except, we’ve heard some cultures
see aging as a descending 

deeper/deeper

down in the 20th century/we had a partner
who unknowingly found herself/
while visiting MoMA/beneath New York’s
tower forest/standing next to Rodin’s
Gates of Hell/ looking up/ she collapsed/

overwhelmed/ now the Gates have been 
moved to Philadelphia/ we no longer
hear those stories/ of course/ the Great
Debate at the time/ was which direction
the toilet paper roll was put in the roller/
was the leading edge to be placed/ so it
came over the top? Or underneath?
an entire culture consumed 
with the top/bottom of fiber
for grub food/ and 

we were fascinated/How could
a species who either landed 
on the moon/ or perpetuated an
elaborate hoax/ make such a strong/
divorce inducing/ 
stand on/ over/under?

as we watched/the vermin released/
becomes a receding dot/into nothing
/gratitude free/ into this morning’s
Anthropocene fueled/Spring storm

we reflect on how flimsy this
architecture of propriety/ how easily 
the roof of self can become 
the foundation/ how we raise
up small things/ suppress the great/
how hard/ it is to break 
the heart open/

acknowledge our porousness/
let it all/ IN/ without reference/ 
to an imaginary 

/position/

Photocopying Buddha
Con/Jur/d, 4/17/2025

There’s a Buddhist Temple, we’ve been told
where the only ritual objects are photocopies
of a photocopy of a statue, which in turn, in turn
                        in turn, is a generic depiction

of a smoothed Buddha, the anthropomorphic
smiling lump, hands folded, wrapping the entire
world in this embrace. A friend once asked us
YOU'RE NOT SAYING EVERYONE 
       SEES THE SAME THING? are you?

this is why It's good to have a teacher, when you
see they believe in the silliest sillies, unlike a
photocopied Buddha, they have real warts, real 
zits, and occasionally when sitting fart too loud 
                                                               and even

after years and years of practice, mix up Dharma
and Delusion, (the best ones admit it and laugh
laugh, laugh, laugh
and move on) you realize, YOU can do it too
YOU can become Buddha, YOU 
                                            already are Buddha

YOU just need to hold up a copy of a copy
of a selfie to PROVE, beyond all doubt, it.

FOR THOSE PUNK HISTOGRAPHIC BUFFS — DO YOU HEAR IGGY IN THE ABOVE?

Much love,

Con/Jur/d, 4/19/2025

Bon Iver has a new album: SABLE / fABLE