no less a personage

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.


where you want it to be

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


not a machine or world

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


untwisted tale of something likely true

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.


as necessary

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


settle down

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


regrets

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.


a personal cloud or laundry

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.


a story

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. 


the word right above it

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


country food

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


say the grounds are damp from the day’s rain then cordially agree

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.