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April 2010

or rushes away from New York City

Resistant to some expressions and one 

approach, but a receptive posture is 

almost never unattractive. When I 

offer you a poem, and you take it and 

even put up with it, I get the right-

ness of everyone's Soul. In that moment 

Geography itself takes one of its 

vivid vacations and brings home a range

of not-disappointing photos. And so

moving backwards to the group, these angels 

will have Accomplishment papered across

their mightily hugged shoulders, careful not

to spill illicit drinks, or then healing

what we take to be the wounds of the day.


now when someone says

Winter last they took him home to scare him witless.

Nervous.  His morality speaks Nothing into nonsense.

He curtsies toward our flag and says

My love for you is 20th century typography

Your love for me is a window up here.

I can see our deals rolling in like cigars.


he did forgive him

Thought he could stand under these branches until everyone dropped.

Thought the satires would be less perfunctory, more compassionate.

Not even the dictionary could predict his vagary, and then he said,

    Amo amas he loves an ox

    Emu emudge be still my sludge

Birds in likenesses of each other … dangling through the sky … haven't we had enough of this enervating slyness? 

Checking for new software … and finding …

A grimace in the shape of an ancient Spirituality …

An ambient hum … no … humiliation …

A brown truck muddling up the drive …

Thought he'd duck out when the winds blew through one at a time.


claims a movie makes

Even with a head full of advertising, I can count.

Can you imagine a very light lunch finished by a few grapes?

No, I never took a course in Latin, but grapes eat sunshine.

I get it on one level, but on others it's a Slurpee®.

Back and on into the glittering darkness, a horse coughs;

And as this reminds one of the golden age of Canadian acting,

I will walk straight on into New York City in my old track shoes,

Warming up to becoming a person in the most authentic style,

Full of life that sounds a little like Coca-Cola®.


stands for enough

None likely. Not today.

One slaughtered directly. Only taught.

Two in the absurd blinking. Doubly urgent.

Three cut deeply. Triple summer.

Four gone like disciples. Quadruple bypass.

Five on a bender. Quintet on ice.

Six passing gas. Hexagonal constriction.

Seven born blue. Heptad in leotards.

Eight stooping low. Octagonal motivation.

Nine blending in. Novenas on the sly.

Ten down. Decadence on the rise.

Some in the way. Just now.

up from the house

She was distracted by a woman laughing near the door.

You figure out the rest. It seems the poems will say

Fine. And how are you? from now on, since that's how

They began. In a removal that hoped to form the next

Addition. Like doing something new with a damp

Basement. Or pushing out toward the park. But that's

The sacrifice. A loss. Of some kinds of sense—not

Even poetry—it's not even poetry—without that subtle

Buzz. Forward.

newspaper seconds it

Sentences to Sots and Sparks. Starting here.

Sore very subtly sore and put out.

Like the impress of pain, the will to poll.

Takes one's temperature. A sentence.

Knocks your noggin. A sentence.

Beats a few bowls to bitterness.

Suddenly runs up against it. In pieces.

A sentence. Suspect. Of. Or.

Necessarily. In a local game. Lame.

Complete. As a round of starting & stopping.

The sentence will do it in time.

no threat to citizens

Fennel on ice prefers that which is home

To the confident treasures I told you about.

We might crunch wildly through this free

Afternoon's free flowers. They were writing

The definition of licorice. Confusion or

Another delight springs to mouth or falls

Like a new sonnet by Confusion's kid, Joy.

As I mentioned, riches come in waves and

Represent a Restoration in slamming forth.

journalism

They sing down there … something to God.

Singing to God. Well, roomed-up people trying

To. They are settled in the self that watches

Self being watched. Heard, in this case. Joy—

Less. Well, the tempered joy of the old. Me

I'm penned up inside yellow walls myself—no

Bird.