i'll be a journalist

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

as it happens

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

a catalogue like this

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

real with no adjectives

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.

common and helpful

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

other notes

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.

every word then every single word then

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.

the other way

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.

inside a house

Slight birds.

Whose music is our music. A wickedness. Accompanied.

By inflation. These trees have organized. My time.

Into space.

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.


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.

then closer

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.

you can count

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.