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December 2007
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February 2008

January 2008

thin mist for lunch

Sweetly used to finding something to say

About. These. My pensions and pinches

Of ragweed goldenrod teazle and flax.

Brought the suit to silent sullen ice. O

You found the whole world to mention.

A nature poem. A poisonous morning.

An actual list for shaking and cackling at.

these conditions contrary to law

You must have one. And from there television

Becomes urgent, souring the dead with absolutes.

Take the Invention for example. Of present shame

There's no shortage. I put my hands through it.

Become the black road and all it's dead creatures.

Recent mineral deposits make me nervous. Me

Nervous in an open-minded way about the schedule.

We stick to it, insisting on one always turning into.

new night selector code

Stops quick enough. Reminds me

Of spelling practice. A game of.

Tense as twice. Then rubberbanded.

You and I. We go for the automatic prompt.

And greet cattle in the orchard. Investors.

A chorus of steel. Goes on past sundown.

Goes on without license.

a man-made peninsula

Indeterminate as indeterminate. The day.

Links in an old code. A blossom uncapped.

Which puts your head in a precarious notion.

That the signs point to a term of dread. Ice.

For instance. Blouse Age. Nocturnal heaps.

Help me out here. These arms are made for

Walrus. We will not go down under the news.

I never think of fashion any more. I never

Think of money except to jerry-rig old iron.

drafting toward

An expectation that by clinging

An evolution might be free to

Proceed toward the next and next

Better stage of burning. But

(remember you aren't british England)
((you're yr not even californian California))
(((not even a New Yorker or a wannabe one eastern)))

If I keep writing like this and only

White. from electric Furnished cautions

and careful distinctions made politely

as to uncover spin a broken-handed past (rage)

Well, then
the rest
is easy. But

No gain. Not even cute then -
Disquieted and fearful -

reflects His generosity

Bleeding dark. A poet skimmed as flatulent

As nervous. What they thought cancelled us.

I have been then an opening and closing sign.

Bleeding dark. Somewhere near St. Paul's.

Literature is for birds. To flame a wingéd what.

Any is the best word because I said so. Look.

Bleeding dark drooling out the portals of night.

That's special. And. You see anybody says so.

But one does lose breath on a longer course.

of what was going on

We want. This understood.
A river of it.

Our drumming improves with each breath.
Rushes in the afternoon. What?
No snarling dents? But one vast plain
Of sheetrock beneath a dream.

What ever comes to school. And must be taught.
Comes to school. And must be taught.

caused to death

There's a kind of poem everyone agrees

Is worth writing. But why read it if you

Don't have to? I can stand with my face to

The white wall all afternoon - for a fee.

This makes me traditional and apt to

Stretch my anterior sweetness too thin,

As you might prefer a patterned chocolate

Grimace to one of these talking dinners

Where everyone has been published by God.

And there's a kind of poem born to mistakes.