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MATTRESS & AWNING COMPANY
topic under which
the poem starts to unravel
our violence comes
it comes from our left/their right see
what did any of them have for dinner later
this hitting is American hitting you know
then getting the kids to bed tending a sore arm
then quick sleep without dreams no dreams then
INVEST IN REST BUY THE BEST
that it was good enough for Shakespeare that’s enough to turn
not away but into an incoherent bird an inflorescent storybook
of gosh and golly songs along the lines of brooks or fabricated
of stifled yawning awnings the ones above and bellowing bliss.
I objects to itself and subjects me to some sky blue foolishness.
To turn away from everything but the twenty-six — or not that
To turn from the norm I’m not what the first not even the latest.
Would I let in objects. Well there are some nouns even concrete.
Nothing to say about the turnstile but in the slow pivot even
Shudder at the empty windy end. Steel. What will clear speech.
Of its lazy gesture of its cough of the night we needed care.
because the topic is and will remain ambiguous. sky birds
they say are not angels and dirty dogs are not onions yet.
they want to take you past language as to staring at white.
that we relate to each other as. trying to. wondering if.
it may be the cinnamon that puts off the birds. ignorance.
they say about winter has no friends and needs none. easy
as art recycling a blank cartridge. of conversation about.
us talking this way but not if we’d been born a difference.
released from the cloud of not knowing the range or scale.
rates are likely negotiable. you can’t pretend you aren’t.
It’s not any kind of perfect order but a comfort.
Not a valiant art. Valiance disrupts my mornings.
With pulse. Sort of a pulse of valiance bodes ill.
Not well for any of us. Who is the personal set.
The set of figures fleshy and ethereal. Not cold.
I’ve told you what it means so now you need to go.
Colors attract unnatural ingredients
a long-woke family will tell me when to scrub
not that I’ve ever been to Loss Ang-gless but
here’s the latest item from the Chinese street
say a piece of iron delicate with flighty flaws
displaced me now and then kept the change
when I stuck to myself static as dry laundry
should be enough language to seen a few cars out here and say it
he bunched us up in storms unfriendly-like conditions not for poems
not for learning us now a big philosophy but pretty good for foggy novellas
Waking to a mystique of good humor, his wit wallows.
The context being unusually feral, today’s art finds
some animals perfectly at home in their Rilkean flow
outward and over inward toward the horizon of a torus
where the barren plain of his inconstant words quickly
boomed up the event of a state of mind plush and puffy.
These are puzzles the queer static frizzle goes
“the cuss” in some subtle ways queer and as quiet
not acting out but acting in quest of queer fate
how anything happens along in the queer daylight
as how everything queer subscribes to moonlight
queer as life or waves to hold the greatest good.
So we agree. Call the sunlit section day And the other night.
We float it all. And above it and To innovate the series
Old circus time makes Like a priest in the high notes. O.
Still time. and we’re geese full of black song. O. barking
I called you but not loud enough From here. O stone park.
Take no offense. Ideas are your children asleep In the shade.
Speak to the year. But it’s not. O your mother or your net.
We’ll keep at this or we won’t, so …
whoever is president this final precedent will serve breakfast to losers so secretly fond of bacon what’s more normal than that
violent men and women each in his or her own way fail to note the wave of light across the tops of barren trees
they are not happy at breakfast or in the craggy arches of a rotting book not happy with the definite object of their ambition
their violence explained by nothing but the exceptional heat of their kitchens cans of stiflings pots of oppressions nobody lets the dog out
a sumptuous past for breakfast please join us for a dazzling life a maze of metaphors a complicated dream about blood
when love sits down we get a rough urge to shift our knowledge around his pseudo-violent thus interesting request for infinite dawn
now the mucked up cups and bowls the plates of breakfast flatware scatter in cold light charge us to clear our throats put on our coats
Trumpets the weakness. suffering sucks the venial from the pattern.
“not much a figure painter” but you mentioned friendship and color.
Codes amaze. so for love you hold the drama at center. we process.
to follow the patchwork. watch out. sky’s sometimes a frightening thing.
and even many is only a part. that nothing has ever been shown. not really.
not as waterbirds show. or coarse rock. Now can we have like. a sentence.
This ethical or unethical syntax wants to believe in itself.
Who got saved? Which and from what? Unhappiness? Death?
Sentimental Zn: I’m always in the right place at the right time.
Sincere Zn: I’m a fool. Not a good liar. Not a good thief.
The agreeable burdens of the empty head. Frozen eyes.
The gays will have. The gays will be. The gays.
To tell the truth, we’re long gone on fast kings and fountains.
We’re living on. Vivid minerals at rest. Lines of.
Continents set up just so. Winking us toward joy.
We’re damp crackers. Blue lips. Noted faults.
You just want. Some sensible relations after the lousy vote.
Projections indicate a sweeping hubbub. Central.
I know you want a poem. No. You want an idea about.
The real. The may be. The feel of it.