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February 2017
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March 2017

country food

then grande dark in hand I'm layered beneath a brown hoodie against the cool mist

walk with Sharon a ways down 53rd street missing more than half of everything she says

(is it just a physical problem she keeps her teeth clenched or a darker result of)

she wants money of course she wants grits but only from Save-A-Lot many blocks away

you'll want to know what I did but I won’t say and we did have a pleasant talk about

I was happy to walk slowly we got honked in the crosswalk for taking our time talking

she wondered about my intentions this guy willing to walk at her pace while she talked

we almost got to Target turned back for a bit and left her sped up got on with my day


say the grounds are damp from the day’s rain then cordially agree

Next come actual sentences. Don’t worry. I’m getting there. We’ll look for what I know and will discover next to nothing but that’s okay. I’m terrifically meta today. Or have been for the longest time. A problem with substances not my own. Next to nothing belongs to me, so you get next to nothing. ”The eye was placed where one ray should fall, that it might testify of that particular ray." That’s my queer logic. My finger pointed at my finger runs afoul of Mr. Emerson. The eye was placed where one ray should fall, that it might testify of that particular ray. Testify. It does neither go on nor actually stop. Make of that what you will. Testify, syntax.


say something is something and proceed as if it were

This instant. Recognized a failure to have meant. O there’d been plenty of saying. And it had been. What. A frenzy. A fence. Even once originally a kind of spiritual ecstasy. Or the attempt. To conjure the god who of course wouldn’t allow it. But here. I go on at this. Talking as I don’t talk. Because talking as I do talk is nothing. Hi. How are you today. Cold out again but going to warm up this afternoon.

And this. Instant. Effort to combine my intention with your interest. To re-attach the line. So you might know something again. Look. There’s a U.S. flag blown flat out atop the green copper roof of a pale maybe limestone structure. Solid. Square. A great hall or elegant residence. We can only imagine. Atop twelve. Maybe. Stories of offices and smaller apartments. An anchor. Atop there. To its left a city flag. Blown the same. Instant.

I may have been too dramatic. Looking for attention in the instant. But listening to Dylan here. It’s clear we’re at the end of some world now. And some of us are not too uncomfortable. But what’s to come. Apart from my single death or yours. May be the ongoing ruination of the world. At the hest of a relative few who want more. Of anything. Leaving us in the instant. To care for each other. The most extraordinary. Beautiful ones.

So the effort in the instant. To step past my petty fears. Locate an acceptable form. Of address. To talk about the world again. Site of our love. Where we found ourselves cracked or dented. In a cloud of diminishing returns. Losing and lost. My language turned on itself. I knew words. Past them there be dragons. Lacking the soil to plant I let the air have it. Instant air. Enough for anyone. Air for sure. But just that.


"this willful resistance"

no pasaran … look the other way

          speeding toward you whoever you

the inevitable won’t exceed its

          ownership of this moment the sky

tends to voices in color propped

          along the edges by other edges as

practically practiced lines about

          denial we say this must move less

outwardly than our shabbily hoarded

          purchases piles of time on time

less like a dictionary than a junkyard

          our dust will settle exquisitely

around and over our guesses