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you can talk about your heart and vague things so vague the photos will be out of focus
or while you talk about them in fact you stop talking as talking is known mid-sentence
there are these sounds airs they taught you and will take the place of actual things
but, mister, the particulars acting up around salaries pensions insomnias they go on
they get you to love your folks more fully in the daylight before the governed choose
who to convert to fuel for smart security requires an excellent and caring commodity
your heart at last prepared for shipping placid under sheets of gauze or dry gelatin
and there you found it where nobody talks about or needs an explanation as proposition
Like a thick bird gone up so high not caring how far or how solid the ground. Piece of cake.
Then upended. Tendencies. He had. Them tromped.
I’m following a famous pianist through his tunnels toward an uncertain conclusion. She knows.
The woman is an unfortunate metaphor. For an uncertain conclusion.
One work then another and so on forms a pattern in time and points in space. The work fits there.
No escape from telling, but no fresh news gets past the wall. Old man.
The way (is not worth) (is worth) the weariness. Harsh call.
In which a chocolate chip cookie and iced mocha drink given to one who asks become the media through which a mood is formed.
As a train rushes north, so my heart rushes into a curious roundabout where it goes and goes until it might find an acceptable outlet.
It isn’t food that produces this unusual sensation; it’s the thickness of time.
As far as walking on the edge that may be inviting you to fall off goes, take a minute to consider its generosity, its mercy.
Instead of talking about certain memories, set them on this bright ledge for a pigeon to consider.
Anywhere is literally nowhere with and without the grit known as sand in more careful publications.
I didn’t miss the history book until it confronted me in the rain sobbing like a little kid.
Anyone might presume to have made something, but when the geese cry hark we understand why the wind is so blind.
If everything requires our assent, who’s hungry when the storm passes but how could we be hungry then.
And then something turns the closet into a great vacation.
When I was younger I read about an older poet who when he was much younger even than I was at the time wrote poems of such wonder that older poets of his time took him under their wings as if they were raptors maybe who’d spotted some unusual motion far down on a page of the younger poet’s own magazine and called him up to New York where anything can happen and some things go well.
talking louder and louder till I notice
one sudden yellow bird that seems to be part of this
ever so smaller bit of an idea
the poem of one who sits in a room all day
who reads books and screens for hints of it
life on earth who guesses the animals come
resentful of sky the way any earthbounder
would who looks like himself in the dreams
when no one recognizes him or knows where
a truly frightened frugal apologizer goes
once the plans are duly drawn and approved
then grande dark in hand I'm layered beneath a brown hoodie against the cool mist
walk with Sharon a ways down 53rd street missing more than half of everything she says
(is it just a physical problem she keeps her teeth clenched or a darker result of)
she wants money of course she wants grits but only from Save-A-Lot many blocks away
you'll want to know what I did but I won’t say and we did have a pleasant talk about
I was happy to walk slowly we got honked in the crosswalk for taking our time talking
she wondered about my intentions this guy willing to walk at her pace while she talked
we almost got to Target turned back for a bit and left her sped up got on with my day
Next come actual sentences. Don’t worry. I’m getting there. We’ll look for what I know and will discover next to nothing but that’s okay. I’m terrifically meta today. Or have been for the longest time. A problem with substances not my own. Next to nothing belongs to me, so you get next to nothing. ”The eye was placed where one ray should fall, that it might testify of that particular ray." That’s my queer logic. My finger pointed at my finger runs afoul of Mr. Emerson. The eye was placed where one ray should fall, that it might testify of that particular ray. Testify. It does neither go on nor actually stop. Make of that what you will. Testify, syntax.
This instant. Recognized a failure to have meant. O there’d been plenty of saying. And it had been. What. A frenzy. A fence. Even once originally a kind of spiritual ecstasy. Or the attempt. To conjure the god who of course wouldn’t allow it. But here. I go on at this. Talking as I don’t talk. Because talking as I do talk is nothing. Hi. How are you today. Cold out again but going to warm up this afternoon.
And this. Instant. Effort to combine my intention with your interest. To re-attach the line. So you might know something again. Look. There’s a U.S. flag blown flat out atop the green copper roof of a pale maybe limestone structure. Solid. Square. A great hall or elegant residence. We can only imagine. Atop twelve. Maybe. Stories of offices and smaller apartments. An anchor. Atop there. To its left a city flag. Blown the same. Instant.
I may have been too dramatic. Looking for attention in the instant. But listening to Dylan here. It’s clear we’re at the end of some world now. And some of us are not too uncomfortable. But what’s to come. Apart from my single death or yours. May be the ongoing ruination of the world. At the hest of a relative few who want more. Of anything. Leaving us in the instant. To care for each other. The most extraordinary. Beautiful ones.
So the effort in the instant. To step past my petty fears. Locate an acceptable form. Of address. To talk about the world again. Site of our love. Where we found ourselves cracked or dented. In a cloud of diminishing returns. Losing and lost. My language turned on itself. I knew words. Past them there be dragons. Lacking the soil to plant I let the air have it. Instant air. Enough for anyone. Air for sure. But just that.
felt like he caught this train after it left
send us your examples
no riding without the road
not so full of poem that I’d boom! expand
certainly an inauthentic addition
belonging does seem to have said
here we are are we here
no pasaran … look the other way
speeding toward you whoever you
the inevitable won’t exceed its
ownership of this moment the sky
tends to voices in color propped
along the edges by other edges as
practically practiced lines about
denial we say this must move less
outwardly than our shabbily hoarded
purchases piles of time on time
less like a dictionary than a junkyard
our dust will settle exquisitely
around and over our guesses
In practical pain an orchestra is our
immediacy. Fitted. I link the muscles
to an intimidation, the energy of an
unmediated unmanly momentum toward
our preposterous alphabet of charity.
to have looked at the whole and understood
but what what where and who when did it why
a little or a lot press on and hold it hope
the neighbors and strangers the mom dad kid
rising and dropping colliding colluding to say
alright. so this is our wretchedness.
not so precious as numbers seem to you.
like well-caught fish they flop so promptly.
so for all benign ineptitude we’re here.