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February 2011
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April 2011

March 2011

we start with a funny story

And

somebody will say they are bored 

by 

this. They are bored and you are boring. In this.

but

We have bombs. Would you like some bombs.

And

Sandpaper or dark liquid unevenly applied

with 

a metal edge may account for this discomfort 

as 

bombs entrance and confuse us

as 

the author at the song and the nervous kids breaking

in. 

What are you prescribing after all. Attachment 

to 

our muddled land. You are saying it lives 

in 

us abandoned, rent, but famously kind. Even so

and 

here we are. 

To 

say it about the empire we find ourselves 

in 

the shadow. Sure. Snuggling

into 

the collected body. Where is the fun?

or

What collapsing wave can carry our repentance

for

what cloud of numbers arriving in time

to

loosen the ones always already digging

out 

the solidity of the hole. Their own

as

matter factly now grants servitude a section

of

delight.

 

Listen to the poem HERE.


why it'll go harder for us than for them

Because they couldn't have known us long ago

downloaded for example or texted

Because their hands feet and suns arrived

simultaneously or Because independent of

each other they managed the optional slide

Because they didn't know what we know and

they'd never know it while they breathed

wood-smoke Because they found good time  

on a different clock whose tick and tock 

revolves toward the next second's bullet

while we in our ignorance of them took

everything off Because this is still

arriving and we are as they were still

sharp enough to handle a fresh translation

of those whose song goes thick as ice. And

on again and on. Into the complicated air.

 

Listen HERE.


on the road to denounce

my subject (between two versions 

                of a house or)                     two houses.

As to run through sea-spray.          My standard pieces.

Scary notions.                                   Every night scuttling

            The loose edge. Where I put my reasons together

and stand in a stare dumbfounded 

            by a brutal syntactic negligence

I forgot so much. Then was it seaside. Where I said we're

Talking through cigars again. So we need actual handles to lift

            any truly

Progressive Reform from                  this or that 

say opinion's leaden fact.               What you need to say.

You are closer to one God.               Then the smallest thing

jolts my equanimity.

        There. these two forty-something women. advice & silence. so.
        Here. me. sixty & vague. small black coffee & mozzarella. WB.
        There. these two twenty-something women. boy-talk. words.

Enduring the wholly catholic in the absence of a particular space of breath.

Does it lack feeling or the sensory appreciation of last evening.

We watched                                    the peace officers

who were killers coming to terms with love at last. 

And.                                                  Split.

 

Listen HERE


t(n)extstsths

That there isn't a you in my non-fictional world

seems weird enough but not so much as a holy card

as how at the last penitentiary we walked the yard &

wasn't there something in the air ducts, a pardon

you'd grant for a cowardly song about us as I twirled

you concentrically and spiritually ever & onward.

 

Listen HERE.


your next purchase on this card

The Os line up outside my room & swamp it for business. Four Ts veer too close to the brink of the string. An H dangling from a juicy pear can hang my socks line by line. But what about you, reader now? Where could we meet but here this cold fever of forgodot dotcom. Forget brtom(murphy) for awhile. Say we all made it with our lanky grey fingers. Each of the twenty-six. Good. Ones. Then the rest.


some part of an ars

You stop but you will not stop my saying

but you have in the shrine of its making

stopped my saying for the howmanyth time.

Around back of the garage what was

going on when the kids got so suddenly

quiet. Just a wind. Knocking the bell.

But one misses the sense of a person

in our plots of pale neglected sentences

making faces through the ceremonial hedges 

of … here's the thing … since it's verboten

to be frank … I've had to be … you know … Tom.

 

Read second HERE.