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November 2015
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January 2016

December 2015

extraordinarily temporary and brilliantly disarmed

The comfort of regular syntax normal language that anyone can hear. That says.

They’d call it a pose but I’d say well what isn’t aren’t we all framed like this.

A wren looks at me from its dead place just before I lift it by a leg and drop it.

I’ll always be sorry there’s never no end of that. Blue and gray air. Yellow air.

Black sirens these were cops pushing through like mad birds eyes on the next bug.

But by syntax I meant the day actually turning into itself. To understand bodies.

This. You’ll have to help me here. Normally I’d pretend to do it on my own. But.

Call it a big mystery probably not a miracle just the ordinary getting out of bed.

I was okay for the first few minutes. My claws tap tapped the same world as yours.

notes on the preceding

That you could reconsider what has been written over all these years. Possibly as a whole but also as individual items, parts, bits. That a commentary on these bits might shed light where the items themselves are merely confusing or even infuriating in their disconnections.

That you could set the older part over against the more recent thought. That they could in this way speak to each other across time, I suppose. As if to answer. What does this mean? What were you thinking? But no. It can only ever be What are you thinking? This moment here. Accompanied by a tiny clock that says, no matter what it indicates, now and now. This right here.

That it would always be as much a commentary on the present moment’s meanings and preoccupations as on the item’s significance in the past.

That you could place one item on top of the others. And say This One.

encaustic agenda

Ina ppropriate and political notes ona nistic tremors.

There you’ve gone& said it. Pleading like. Abhorring.

No you on either side of the page. Legendary no ones.

Cancel a subscription. He’s dead I told you he’s dead.

To write as anim possible unexceptional art, and yet.

To write it. Except equals “and yet”. Art imp ossible.

soft as an indeterminate length of string

You shouldn’t put it in the book

that you saw “things”

this way or maybe that way.

These “things” you speak of, would

they have anything to do

with what you want and who they

say you are. Yes. The big

world in tatters climbs your leg.

“prevented always and

ever from common speech

by the shame of it

the inadequate the shame”

shame roses shame horses

porch and vine of shame

over white and red plants

on crutches he’s sixty-

six and never did anything

like this before wrecked

his foot on accident not

a shame but he feels it

and says not in so many

words but standing leaning

over white and red plants

shame the rose the vine of

having hugged the edges

as proof of a solid thing

what it cost at the line


is past … waiting in praises

a whole bunch … a whole bunch of picassos

looser for the looking … tablets …

a number of pages of sheets of pages …

lightning in the rooms I imposed

a secret … “the meaning of the world” … here

you can’t have it … but the memory of

the color he called “blue” … that …

abundantly … until the next arrangement

for forgetting … all the French I learned


a god poem a god poem in high grass and a god poem looking out from clean windows.

it’s better not to type but my calligraphy’s gone rotten so thus and this.

staring is it back at you every prayer staring back. at. you.

this is not god and this is not a good idea you’ll run out of god and words for it.

and listening’s not part of it it’s just the room you hear crackling in a fire.

figure. and here it is. one figure bold per line posing as a shy character.

then there are no figures but shadows off to coffee then on to work.