not a caption



topic under which

the poem starts to unravel

before     no

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




finding in the moment

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.

in the arbitrary face of it

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.

what the hell you are talking about

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.

no threat just imagine

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

what taught

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

one capsule in which

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.

stranger puts a hand to earth

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.

if there's a question in it we'll see

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.

once broken

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

“poets writing in code, nothing seems as normal as ”

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.

what are these tiny red spots

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.