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April 2016
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June 2016

May 2016

use a yellow brush

Attention portraits. Attention poets. Your pages here.

Parked by the dollars. Parked by the door. For good.

April comes out wearing trousers. Nothing superfluous.

Good American pants. The kind we think we’re wearing.

Join us for poems and drop the metaphors at the door.


Always within this context. Polyhedral spinning. In sunlight.

Lines like old trees in older forests. Engaged. Espoused.

Feed me. Feed me. Mama Papa Bird. In a single. Single word.


particles for pentecost

A fabrication. You made it up. Some number of souls.

A quantification. Spirits enfleshed. Flesh enspirited.

A misdirected generosity. Then. To save a number.

A light grief. So what. So white.

A perception. Listen to the weepers. Not a conception.

A  true failure. I counted the hell out of them. These souls.

A knowledge. Lifted by the ears. Thank you thank you.


after scatology

“Poets should get back to saying crazy shit / All of the time” —Dorothea Lasky

 

1)
You can like or not like the end. Excluding

the bright and inconsiderate consequences of

Liking colors camera-like synaptic & cohesive.


2)
Look here’s the resolution you’ve been seeking all week!

These are not smart people. Not even kind. They are ours.


3)
A portion will be donated. To an act of faith. Obedient.

You can assume the fiction. All that heaviness allows.

Will be allocated. Upon receipt of your declarations.

Our good will. A defiant temper. Coming here in roses.


4)
Reading poems but not Poetry has been good for your skin.

When water implies a pasture. Then a crazy barking my love.

A perennial inability there announces Me in grimy glory.


As old maniacs pronounced it. Jedermann. Sein. Eigner.

You get it. A stumble near the goal. An urgent heave-ho.

To the line. Concussive. Blasted infrastructure. A bruise.


5)
Lightly. As usual. Silent. In it. Silent. As usual. In light.


in which without a need love sees you


Sure, water is persistent, direct, as the sky

asks for another chance, a day say of granite.

This illusion that your handsome particles

will suffice. Death so far. Death so far off.

This illusion vast in the oaks the pines comes

off like our beautiful interest in things, not

a Problem but a Pause.


                                                Finally to have said

we don’t know you and we can’t wait to know you.

We figure you’re good for another hundred miles.

We will invite you and your shadow tonight. To

do without your comfortable archaisms we’d just

have to forgive ourselves. To make a living.


likely first lines on a miserable theme

- shackled for hours & days to a little mirror

- displaced and downhearted in a uselessness

- then you’ll need some things to say about it

- silence is not normally their optimal choice

-

- he takes it for the silence in which it occurs

- then sometimes nothing likes anything et cetera

- soon an accumulation of ordinaries comes about

- them strangers again at the edge of cardboard

- chapters boxed & communicated to the patients

- put him in a room that had not yet been cleaned

- abandoned herself then to any other’s decisions

- light sprouts light rain & dim morning sounds

- these bells during the whole of a dull dark &