Deborah Bernhardt



May I help who's next in line
to prove dialing telepathy.

Randomizing ribbed casino dice cups.
[S]uccessful identification of callers   

rooted in closeness, 
not physical proximity.

Longitudes lovely and lush
due to variance in kindness

and latitude of glass.  
May I help who's next

measure momentum's radiant
and fibroblast ranginess.

May I help who's next.
That person will be you,

merged into the referent
who, can I,

almost know but for
the call of uncertainty principle.

Can you know
if I don't

know what it's like to be a bird.
The sun is essentially gashes

like my chest cavity.
Cut radiance sonars

through multi-ply
Armantroutian tone.

I'd like a Carl-a-Jung-a-ling
ringtone. If you're just tuning in,

if or if not, we're talking
about distance feeling.

What it means for us.
Can I hear you

now past the horizon.
That blue is all in a rush. Who's next.




Sweeten up,
like one stalk rhubarb

plus two pounds Domino:
bring goods

for the wanting pantry.
Also, Scotch

to peel in tight darkness
for a Stick-Slip Phenomenon.

Don't you bring selfie sticks
to the triboluminescent tableau

of spontaneous jerking
due to a pair of doohickeys

sliding over each other.
Light emissions and metaphor

displace the code of objects;
commonalties and lower limit speech

are closer than they appear.
So I grab the vehicle's hips.

They are firmly Betty Boopish.
Toothsome sparks

of Wint-O-Green and Pep-O-Mint
give us static mouths—

O-Ecsta-Tic and O-Lumin-Ous.
Spectral data despooks

our sensitive components.
If you are flutter-driven

as I am, throughout,
we can be our own devices'

triboelectric nanogenerators.
Scintillator, alligator.




...the Brownian motion in those speckles, a cosmic coldness...
—Saul Bellow, Henderson the Rain King

Tuning forks lost in a drawer.
Metronomic loco-
motive running fear itself true.

Store a new phrase
in the DigiTech JamMan
Looper. A sound-on-

sound recording. Keep
the briars in. Brownian
and sundry tumble

for to live with each other
as Brownings. Waking
where we wake, rêves-

riven, as it happens,
to rive is to reroute,
to re-rivet. Sci-fi

stars I made into us
get engaged on a raft—
then are blown to fishpieces.

You plot spoil
to stop my screaming:
the stars reassemble.

Every scrap of them.
Their grotesque state
is temporary, revocable,

rotative. Our younger selves
are backwards compatible
and to be trusted.

Time stretch a loop
that is stopped.
Do not bring home

someone else's body.





on MAGIC [TM] TAPE: [link]