Posted at 11:22 AM | Permalink
squirreling a page
full of dollars dishes dancers
“You’ve read long enough to know when what you’re coming up against, not understanding, totally lost within, is mostly your problem not the writer’s. Most likely. But then there are writers — well, you know it’s not your fault.”
throwing it over
so the ruins lend
and some going on
Posted at 11:50 AM | Permalink
the day job …
the day parted
I get it
but the result
so sorry …
lawn full of clover …
come … honey here
kept rootlike …
in fine me …
saying this ain’t
what I see but sweet
ain’t it a gas
a gass gas gassss
Posted at 05:47 PM | Permalink
means this one
tail-chopped wing-sliced beat-to-shit
not ever flying not ever again hopping
through its short black life
hidden forever in chassis-shadow grief
Posted at 10:30 AM | Permalink
Applicable as appliant to a muddy wood for trumbling through
herdsay o'er unproven paths, this is my month of herons. Aghost
at my stumbling intended, I push our funitures aside for love of.
OR OR OR OR
to a muddy wood
for trumbling through herdsay
o'er unproven paths,
this is my month of herons.
at my stumbled
our funitures aside
Posted at 10:41 PM | Permalink
sitting in the office in the sitting in sitting in the office and on
talk becomes the glossy path to forgetting - just sayin’ - talk
then finding the workman out the window random on the street put away
then a dearth of flowers pointed toward the sky o we were talking
then about sad transits toward the city then the open field here now
boilers elevators guesses tiny numbers and small paper meetings
where nobody meets inside the sleeves of an argument of my name
turn it around and start speaking french and say it and say it
repetez! repetez, geezer! mummer of answers to the ending hours
this is the lasting hungry one the hand outthrust to mercy to birth
Posted at 03:47 PM | Permalink
This? Will this do?
Someone who writes ‘then’ when he or she means ’than’ … I form a little judgment.
Someone who uses too many words which is nothing—not at all—like using too many notes … I form a little judgment.
Someone who bows because it looks good and—really—there’s nothing else to do right now … I form a little judgment.
Someone who puts the crumbs out here because birds have got to eat … I form a little judgment.
Someone who stills my hat and calls it a gift …
Someone who pushes too hard on the black crayon rather then set the page on fire …
I’d have to steep myself in your complexion your utter disregard … and form a little judgment.
Posted at 10:54 PM | Permalink
+ saying when you haven’t gone out in many days or have only had one
+ for natura as our scattered orders announce a lack
+ bitter or balmy skin of the space i stand apart from you
+ affectionate homemade religion no fair trying other brands
+ far away from speaking screaming sinks us in its rubber boat
+ some thing you turned to your attention gave up
Posted at 10:40 AM | Permalink
everything has been given is giving itself right now and will be given in long long long sermons to come
going standing up and lying down keeps the earth solid and breathless under too many layers of us
he puts the bicycle to the wall puts it there and dances a spin for no obvious reason
not hearing the whole piece under rushing water and shuffling paper below shushing trousers
once an intruder his difference takes everything given and sells it back to us as something we can’t live without
having correct posture for leaning over ruptured lakes rivers gassed and forgotten like the easy and the pretty
these days you look like this thing I haven’t the talent to describe but here you are just like that
Posted at 06:56 PM | Permalink
The poem doesn’t have fingers or hands but can ask anyway. Ask you.
This information about the poem is not set against a plane of color. Say burnt ochre. Some deep dirty red. Not that. But the poem itself may be. A frame is not optional.
The poem puts me on a pedestal. Of your own making. See ME up here. But not waving now.
And, in fact, there are no winners. And you know why.
Posted at 11:20 AM | Permalink
now why not more fun steel cold & here now ?
are you combining this moment with one you had some time ago ?
you must ry harde you must try harder to remember it
we were in a field the sun ra n through our sluice gate
i think you looked very nice even precious before
you exploded with godlike inefficiency
Posted at 12:24 PM | Permalink
not by standing not for fuelnot ever
not befriended not an artnot ever
not of reasons not unfinishednot ever
not a picture not some rictusnot ever
not its own not so usefulnot ever
not a gun not some volcanonot ever
not brecht not the next bressonnot ever
not an engine not a corpsenot ever
Posted at 10:43 AM | Permalink
This won’t heal.
This will never heal.
Posted at 09:52 AM | Permalink
i found a planchette
a planchette under the oak
it circled round and spoke
a letter of the ground
Posted at 10:15 AM | Permalink