Mark Tursi		Undismantled Scaffolding             -- After Bei Dao   The moon promises unknown dreams, then cancels them,  stealing its own  umbras and penumbras, stashing them in daylight.  So, we invent our own  mysteries like gossip a miserly selfishness repeated in forlorn silence, pairs of collapse retreat with the hazy silhouettes, misty mirages.  We leave the stadium, our countries, our homes, dented with psychedelics, brains in knots.		Image and Magnet  I. Both contain “game,” one trading a harder sound for a softer meaning and the other,  vice versa. The grimm images stepmothering and paranoiding through our fabled minds, a magnet for violence, cannibalism and sex. Hanseling and Greteling about with candy in one hand and a witch’s heart in the other. Serum’d into our own knowing An alchemy in a bed full of idiot and fangs Red riding us about like nightmares and scary genitals.   II. The body’s continuum was someone else’s idea. It’s no wonder your lineage is last. Why do we feel the world must be? It’s just beginning, but I’m just as much as you are.   Drop off the curtains; the beginners are in the refrigerator. Don’t worry; the ingredients are on the label. Yes, they were sacrificed, but, of course, they deny it.  The year is once again, but don’t tell anyone. A curse upon you and your vanishing points. Could anyone really survive the end of love? It’s a disaster to accumulate such an absence. It’s another to hive about as if “for only” or “being kept.”   The waterflesh of ribbons.   The driving as if the harvest was some inevitable.  The guests are hypnotized, glued. The stormy skies seem stormy. The exhalations of some situation incredulous or exasperated beyond the balloony smiles and characters of cartoonish impossibilities.   Weren’t we outside       the avid       the greedy       the thoughtful? Those verb conjugations outwit that blue grace, that crash, that bed of sphinxes so cunningly trapped in the hand of a precipitous panda stuck in the green cheese of another teardrop.   She called it a shattered lamp. She called it the hypodermic sunshine. She called it the combustion of lunar distress. She called it the browsing among zero. She called it the time to acknowledge the reasons. And there we are, an earthquake ripping through our imaginations. Suddenly here the wide range. And, again, one must assume the project is full of riddance. Little minds, all mornings full of hue caught at IT again.   These are snatches of thoroughfare, howling songs, arias, ears without pants, and numerous other vestiges in the balance of power. Wasn’t it your own vestiges covering up for you? Wasn’t it the rookie placing his furtive glow among the furtive, but, yeah, who thinks ahead about how to firt or flirt or lead the horses to their stalls?     Waiting for inspiration is like watching a tree grow. One parenthetical slowness follows another. The wind whispering through the same tree becomes one more useless prayer blowing nowhere.