D.U.M.B.O.  D I R E C T


K e v i n   A u z e n n e

Sunny Day Physics

What is the nature of this force--
the spectacle of ligh that burns
itself to death
the thing that even the minnows have,
pushing themselves to some higher
not the storm
of numbers and language, the syntax
of laws which describe
the push
as a methodology of domination--
the physics of this city:
a poor song
sung by mathematicians and mass transit
bus drivers.
Not that.

What is the nature of this force--
the shit that churns
interior vessels; the paste that
keeps them all afloat?
Could it be only that which is not seen
like the remembrance of an awful
Is the force of this woman,
the push
of that man,
the burning
of residue,
the pale red of tenderness
smealt into stellar blue?
A flame with importance,
this weight is what
feeds us.
A fire to drink from
a garden of eden
a will to write,
a touch accomplished;

the true nature of force
is finding a way out.
Not to be beaten senseless
or pummeled by the
off-shoot fear
But to be cured from sickness
simply by the offering:
we help ourselves
by easing off the gas,
the engine rests
and then
we may collect awarenes
like butterflies.
The cables of our lives
loosen their fibres,
as the force slips away gently,
only for a moment
are the fools allowed a
peak behind the curtains.
With brows raised, the frightened face
of Oz
a fun-house mirror,
reflections of
our own
seen through a prism:
this force, out across
the leveled and broken concrete,
is the luminescence
refracting into halo
upon halo of
light energy.