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August 2009

op. 67, no. 4 in A minor

Hymning down below a sober Western title track. Humming.

But they know the words. I just can't hear them. Have you too

Gone over the book to say I Don't Know What Happens When

We Die. And nothing happened. The rain falls down on the

Too-green grass. I agree there's no failure like trying to please

Everyone. Just please me and my three life-like Identi-bots. I'll

Swerve toward you in a few lines. Then away in old rain gear.

as it cooperates it steadies and stills

Mold on the mind and the

hemmorhoidal paradigm of

looking so hard to find that

finding earns the problem.

Well, the least you can do is

begin with the cap and go

on. They will say Look how his

oxen come in through the gate.

Look how the oxen mope and

meander just as the fruit of

black mold meanders home-

ward in the brain toward the

idea of itself coming home

to the lung it needs for

speech. Or it's natural to

say about your place just

before or after a procedure:

The city seems to be dying:

No more willow by the shore:

One bird pips all about it.

after a short title to entertain and engage our audience

We come up high and step out of the car. That far boat.

That far skirt on the edge of what's properly been smart

and sanitized for or proofed as a manuscript in the hand

of a narrow gorge. We come up high against ourselves

in that far boat. Trying so hard to approach the limited set

called Pictures and Perception. We write about how far

tension takes us this far. And excuses us from knowing it.

branching trees and ample gardens

Poets are a village group speaking this language. Some wear straw-like roofing material. Thatching. And mossy shoes. Some own the wells and wait for trains.

Why not accept a group that tolerates all babbling abstraction without any "irritable grasping after fact." Another group might handily work with tools.

Have coffee with a group. Talk about anything except the roaring that goes off as art into the bushes and comes back with a funny expression.

Sit around and say any undulant thing ... any number of things you could smoke.

Because the coolest had turned its back. It's insulting enough to have found each other through the aggregator and settled by the river.

Place the camera in a rocking boat.

Then think—just think—how everybody is looking for clearer cluttered speech. And it's only a matter of time.

especially when you know that

What he does. And where you go.

They could be just about the same.

Could be. She's only poetry after all.

Poetry after All.  In every sense.

The City seems to be saying

Go Away.

Some Other marks it and makes it

again. We'll say

Let's raze it's dreamlike shabbiness

to ground level. Catch our breath.

And leap on down like sheets of paper.

Waltzing down like carpenters.

A plumber follows me to sadness.

The bricklayers. The landscapers. Lost

mediocrities. Which happened to be

gorgeous. No doubt. Due to some

loneliness. It puts the guitar back

where flies and drums

lay down these milky day-like moves.

Trying, too. Trying over and above.

as revealed to us on the first day

Hearty glop. Say. I need more shadows then.

Stumbling around inside a well-lit mystery.

Constructing a something. Connect weather

To the fact. Never mind the mixing. A Cat 5

cable. Her harp's too sweet and undeserved.

Anyway. I get to. I'm special. Birthday boy.

Original tongue of my sensate lives. Lost.

Still the morning. Is continuous with whatever

I happen to be necessarily wondering now.

Hearty click over some anonymous violins.

Then I get a louder voice through the wall. Say

Something sweet. Direct. It's my birthday after

All. O thanks. You are too kind. O. No. Thank

You. I'm glad I wasn't born a cicada. But it'd be

Okay for a few minutes. Or a flowering shrub.

All the other kids'd laugh. So what. So what.

Go. Taste and see the goodness of the Lord-io.

found beside a phony life project

"Ear," he said, and pointed to the fractured crow.


Thunder consistently supposes us rock-like and dark.


You have a good ear. A good ear today, birdie.


So we're on the back edge of the storm and bright.


One wing pushed in projects a pretty mean glare.


At last glad night rubs us in like an artificial limb.

the uselessness of the bombing

We weren't trying to find a new way of talking. But if you talk like one of these over and over again it will seem sort of like a language. Not so important as a language. But a pattern that anyone might notice. The way the plumbing talks to the water every night even while nobody cares. A pulse or click you think and hope is in business for carting a small part of what matters ... of a ready-made something ... to your ears. Just because it's life and not the other thing that isn't. And you think it doesn't matter much after all. And ... well ... okay.

writing for mirrors and forget

The tenderness of the vulnerability of duct tape.

Crammed full of ideas. Like.

I really don't know what you're talking about.

Were we avoiding this unpleasant discussion for so long.

Trailing a bit of lint through the day.

Into which the child was placed not breathing.

There is no sadness in irregular surfaces.

They cover. All Friends. Even hands.

personification of the power that destroys

His preference for whatever hangs on the edge.

At issue were so many falls that led to his death.

This was always meant to be thought if not even

Read. Certainly not to be spoken as if he were

Here. Being witty even without much chocolate.

His bus let him off at the corner of Good and OK.

Is that a red hose off to the right. In the shadow?