I'm glad you're here. Thanks for stopping by.
Who has put love put love in the lane. Whose love’s been put.
There in the lane love. Has love’s eye on the road been lain.
By one who proceeds and proceeds apace. That is by one step.
And shines across the surface of a black plane the distance.
As distance in arguments in farces in plenty of dark suits.
In you and me a whiteness meets in the slack mumbling line.
a new writing style hung upon the adequate
will it fix a breakfast or an election will
will it remember the fresh shirt of the line
no there are no more lines, elections, or styles
there are some hitherto coherent flavors afoot
aimed at a fruitful disintegration as we settle
the way everybody talks when everybody remembers
we settle on freedoms awkward even ugly actual
and plenty cracked in the manner of old signs
a quick turn toward unguided sense for a very shy person
is the true disappearance of form yet it’s enormous fun
to recognize how a faux nothing comes with grapes & bitters
sent to your room. soon dismissed as an unnecessary whiteness
my oppressions tumble trifling as unremarkable beside yours
a squiggly line between true sadness and this here these notions
that I’s too small for the making. of any thing. I lacks the scope. I lacks the organs. the tools. ever a photograph.
takes itself away from its place. lost context collides with. what I wants. if not everything. the indefinite enough. in place of nothing.
and having. to be saying. is having. I hears it. going on. high and low. life. its loved and unloved parts. all one.
a detachment stands for “hey” say this comes to you do you say
complicate it in service of a vague dread or unhappiness or to
the end the recording calms you down as practical steady wind
settles the day. your plan for the day has become much simpler
you will intercede for the sky who only wants its fair share
of the anthropomorphic frisson nearly the whole world gets at
once the poem has been published out from the imperfect box
or self polished by say this sudden spin toward quicker sense
then you can probably say it just like a normal person would
o the naughty poets the naught of poets
world made of words stood up against the all-out strangeness of the world
words made of world there's another tune
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 a 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.