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as we await a miracle that will then allow the process to proceed
that on some day the right mirror will carry the right face forward
that we’ll find the right bird—even the crow—on the next open branch
that understated hyperstated polystated microstated exostated endo-
what you’ve thrown away became the planet you knew you’d need again
or what took so long to verify became the edge from which you began
or how much we forgot to cry the lost life we would have become then
that boy will refuse with regularity to fix the star round the state
this is the perishable perhaps there was no patience for narration
that we’re against it as we’re against death that licks our fingers
this is our struggle we’re holding out we’re on our own we’re happy
simple. you have a language use it. point
to the necessary. the useful items. point
to the shadow. or the solid source. point
to the accident. stuck on this one. point.
our every part soon’ll be taken apart
then far enough alone ago two is three
when they think it they finally get one
they reach around for balance and say
some knocking ghost some fundamental ghost
put to the ground put round the early fire
comes wondering how long the blood’ll go on
how far a question reaches
wants to be known to survive be read he said
but why these written from the condition of
dream should matter is no matter worth time
that you need to be sent from a certain mind
or will take a few days for viewing toward
what’s everywhere just when you need it here
and it sounds like someone talking to anyone
then one may not be smart as a tree then one
may have forgotten a sense of time of distinct
eras. you must not bring your disorder to this
young place. that’s looking for. looking for a
common sense. or looking for a link to time.
some of his life’s ‘let’s all say’ is unavailable
to the rest of us. we hush. we move around.
What’s not constructed happened anyway somehow
this is because I consider myself
to have been fashioned (once past the making)
to have been fashioned of the made
who do you think you are anyway not special
or so smart as the wind is smart or
the boy who shows up in sleep asleep
as the sky with an immense library of images images.
Well there it’s goodness carries on in the manner
of one speaking more than writing
a comfort to steady my shaky progress along
this fresh sidewalk where nobody taught me to love it
nobody taught me to think there’s something to it this
new morning it’s one in a series but here
it is new and yet not made not even fashioned but
recognizable in its rocky blue onwardness
This is how I think anyway somehow
given the chances I’ve had
what you would expect you’d be given
as deep feelings and or tears along the way
from bodies carved like angels by bodies
looking forward to another day
when the learning sticks to the middle
of was it a path as usual muddy thin and slow
brings us to a sort of anger even while the fun
proceeds you weren’t bringing it in person
you followed along on cool wires look
we’re happy to talk a new way for awhile we’ll
be new for a while altogether fresh outside
the classroom there’s a bright jar exploding
just think. as you’re a part of it. or part
That men are good for killing and getting killed themselves.
That there is no sexual question where men are concerned.
What … no … not that.
That wherever the song drops men stumble and sleep.
That you can know a man as you know a landscape in its own time.
That men may think there’s a constellation for them somewhere.
That the woods are a burden for which men will dance in pale dresses.
That enjoying the language and company of others brings men to peace.
That men are a social practice lost in a range of beverages and partial understandings.
That men cannot write from the outside if they are men something like me.
That a man disagrees and floundering there flaunts it.
That men find children in the grass out back of the house they also found.
That with their feelings men approach the not-men as gifted complications.
That we understand a man to be the vague distant hill in some paintings.
That emergencies intrigue men.
That embarrassments hang men out to dry.
That an equality among men troubles or settles everything under the sun.
That the test of a man is unclear is not too irksome in the long run.
That to expose themselves to nature men will dismiss the help.
That men break up break down is common to both men and others.
That when they love men are more responsive to changes in the weather.
That poetry doesn’t have an answer men accept without approval.
That winter offers men a question.
That their arms will work well pleases men and others to no end.
That the patience of men paints long tunnels blue.
That who cares where men go or what they want in their critiques.
That the freudian imperative bores men in their analogies.
That the urges once again sculpt men as tremendous fun and suspect.
That a man hasn’t even bothered to ask.
That men light up the gorges of perdition with their grief.
That men in the library take large windows for hints for granted for text.
That after the game a man goes on for a while.
That a man’s heart will be handed to someone quickly brilliantly.
That his insecurity approves of a man in every way.
Then I was crushed into thinking about the disasters. Meeting
the bits that reconvened. Their faces had me in pieces, too.
Whichever pronoun took the long view, I was there in spirit.
Something solid happened, caught our breath. We stayed home.
“Then” “I” “was” “crushed” “into” “thinking” “about” “the” “disasters.” “Meeting”
“the” “bits” “that” “reconvened.” “Their” “faces” “had” “me” “in” “pieces,” “too.”
“Whichever” “”pronoun” “took” “the” “long” “view,” “I” “was” “there” “in” “spirit.”
“Something” “solid” “happened,” “caught” “our” “breath.” “We” “stayed” “home.”
Mind without a moment. A scenario.
You’d imagine there’s an incident to which
this refers. Of course there is.
There's always an incident.
You’d like me to set The Modern off
over there beside the ruined jeans you
made me wash too many times when we
were apartments together back then.
The Modern would appreciate a break
for insight, purposeful clarity, for steel
girders and roses, even. Bread for the hungry.
We’ll sort an array of lunch food, ordinary
contemporary bologna, cheeses swiss and
cheddar. Dreams will come once The Modern’s been
subdued and the work’s been done to uninvite
its grimy kids from our 50th anniversary.
Type type thunk on the Smith-Corona.
You can say it’s not old as a path. But it’s
that longing, just back from a long white nap.
Whose music is our music. A wickedness. Accompanied.
By inflation. These trees have organized. My time.
We were wholly frustrated then.
No one in that world would dare speak of “components.”
Too many ears, you see. So who do you say they are?
One. Just one.
Who has written this. Our something. At last.
Soon the past folds me into its spooky herd - “a superior culture.”
I visit the barbarians at their monuments -
bones and droopy shredded light - old prey.
Get out. Then get out again.
The object is incarcerated, reporting from there things
like “My guts lie down on the rue de la paix”
like “Everything explains them, then morning”
like “Ponder amnesia before you take my white aura for intelligence”
like “It’s possible that these dead birds have noticed everything we’ve done”
like “Exceptional stunts” or “Apparent disclosures”
like “My inadequacy rushes past school and resolves itself in your kind regard”
like “This childish urge to rebel cracks everything like marbles.”
The object is misconstrued that sent you this far. Whose terrific airs. Look.
Listen, we’ve been undermined by the weather. We’ll sit in chairs. Watch
the object taking form. A wave in [to, from, about] the day we couldn’t get back/to.
Breaths. Which are flowers the god sent. Even the plain speech my prepositions strike. Harsh. Unwilling. My dogma. Blinks.
The truth here offers you a cigarette, but you refuse it. For an unusual reason. It scrutinizes your face. Disapproves. Then nothing happens.
There’s too much going on. Here. Even the mess blown about follows a course. Of course obscure to us. Plastic unbeautiful rope frayed blue. In a grim heap.
1) Someone stayed up all night scratching color into rough paper. Something solid from the northern beaches. The cold’s a present from the sky. A crushed 40 oz. and helpful plastic everywhere. Once out of the equation, a subject blushes and is irked by its own emotional accidents. Watchers and snarky students have opinions. So the sky takes the top half of the page, as if it had an idea, a plan for it.
2) From the baroque earth, you notice many pairs of hands sprung up, to till the soil of expectant heaven, also baroque. The Real takes shape, verging on ‘a character in a play’ with which nobody bothers anymore. The bother’s been consumed by a few rococo resurrections. Along the lines of radio waves approaching distant ears. Flat as a cyclone. As all writers face the predictions and perils of a touching solicitude. This one, for instance, goes on past early agonies to inoffensive laughter at sunrise, at hammocks, at liberty.
3) As people say, it’s clear that one doesn’t understand how people say things. Awkward must be real, tipped over and leaking the actual into these public rooms. Take my card, lady. You never know.