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April 2009

an assertion is not an appointment

Mark this report that dogs are bent at the edges.

Not anything like flowers. Maybe trains overnight.

Not helped by the specifics. Precisions. List them.

Of extension, duration, hardness blah-blah. You

In your old clothes know dogs well enough. You

Making toward the door. This white one snouts

Its way in.  Remember to report that you aren't

Scared. Haven't been for the longest time. True.

One precious metaphor. Would make us rich. A

Rowdy lot of money for fooling many hungry ones.

But about the dogs. I revel in their tumbling arcs.

That's all. Their boyish manly firstness in coming

Up with the barking animal trick. Stick to it, proud

Pup. This even in the report signals catalepsy.

Note the fact goes limp. They'll need all future

Endearments, too. No end to this folding over.

Say ouch the damn dog has bit me in the limb again.

And feel taught. Something. As having been bought.


then turning around for instructions

So any practice is

interior design. The designer

your lover a complete stranger.

The space a rental

dream you own. Who are you to take

the comfy chair to the curb. My trike.

A soldered soldier my kid forgot.

You'd think

all the televisions had suddenly got lice.

So our quality

suggests more than anybody needs

or should have to stand up for.

A one light pole night

reduced to its most recent

expression.


black ice by the way

Wasn't some specialty with its salad garnered salary garnished salty gathering so good.

I can stand under my making now. Puddle-like.

Reading Francis Ponge Mute Objects of Expression (Trans. Lee Fahnestock) where the world is tuned to language & the object to be honored goes limp in figures. Where's the honor in that. The process obsesses and won't let go. Of the sense that the OBJECT despite all protest is not REALLY enough in itself but must be fed into LANGUAGE.

Market. Then start.

Puppet. So pure.

Any. Thing goes.

Starry. White heart.

Theory. Of poet.

The brain will often do some standing up to language like a tough guy with its own rogue temper. On its own tough terms ... its own rough tool.

the real poets

are tremendous emergencies later in the day.

I wish night

would shut up

long enough to

kiss me goodnight.

A can of something like tomatoes prevented me from calling it a jar of olives,

which would be useful and vastly sweeter than anything you can name.

I was trying to deliver dinner to my favorite characters when the television broke.

I counted them among my friends until they stopped writing


identify the flower before you eat it

We must have been French or in France that day.

My oranges stuttered like Darwin like Newton.

The crossing hadn't improved any of our attitudes.

These formalities contradict me into my beauty.

We shall all speak like this some day and smoke

Black cigars. But, cheri, the light's bearable here.

And we're finally filters. Filtered and contained as

A sentence within a serial novel. Prosperous. For

A time without any prospects. A pail of presence.

Scuttled in a bungalow. Sinking and singing some

Ridiculous round. We, too, boys together in Tours.


notes toward rivers gospels and manual labor

A dialogue in which there are secret words that must be repeated in a given secret order.

Us to feel uniquely.

If there isn't some obscure knick-knack, it's all wrong.

Because a lump. Meat. Stone. Grief.

Sections broken off for the usual reasons will cohere eventually.

You write so clear and so good it makes me bounce.

Sit. Still. Be. Quick. You. There.