Previous month:
January 2010
Next month:
March 2010

February 2010


I've decided

that what passes for prose is not even that which gets me through the day. I was ashamed of my presumptions in getting through the day. It was like me, similar to my old confusions. What—did you think you could devour the world and not get a tummy-ache? Did you think the free air would stand still for such stupendous taxation without … ?

Here empty of sentences stands one looking at a wall. All the hills behind echo radio truck tunes. What's in his pockets now? Keys and lint and lint-tangled keys. Pockets of old pants. Voices.

late 14c., "flax prepared for spinning," also "refuse of flax used as kindling," somehow from O.E. lin "flax" (see linen), perhaps by infl. of M.Fr. linette "grain of flax," dim. of lin "flax," from L. linum "flax, linen." Later "flax refuse used as tinder or for dressing wounds" (c.1400). Still used for "flax" in Scot. in Burns' time. Applied in Amer.Eng. to stray cotton fluff.

Something made of what's left of words. One needs a fit apparatus, sensitive receptors. Sunlight so easily mistaken for a god. Say, isn't there a opera where the sun tries to become a person but ends up a matchstick?

Explosion at the lint factory blamed on imprecise wheezing.

Face-Off at the Lint Factory.

And to wander far from Poetry … still … not far enough.

at once

Puts his hand to it and starts another cathedral. As along a branch.

Men startled like herds in the city. Swayed in the breathing.

All pieced together in warning winter light. There's been birds.

Stone cut for a good slice. Then starting with another halting stall.

And the next. The next. And the next. The next. Sung into singing.

A long bench then an intercession. And it helps to have old bones.

to barely travel further

Hello we missed you congratulations. So

In 1949 we entered the authoritative Defiance.

As in addition you can't help but look at the blockage.

No I'm not a fan. But summer when you hear it is always done.

You don't expect the digging the maps the woman.

You. Like California and a long dress a secular therapy.

She. The serious giving of abruption made on the slow rise

Of an invited map. Got me nervous. Full of uncertainties about

These boring turns. Into sexual concern.

These are my sudden highways finally superficially

Coupling our dislocations to the time it takes one to raise

A kid nicely into a nice world with nice forevers linked on & on.

(just now while listening to PoemTalk but not their fault)

no appeal from this

Some marks are more meaningful than the others.

Not one poet. Not with fingers. Not with toes.

Insistent & apocalyptic. Something wants us washed away.

Swept off for no reason we can figure.

But we cannot do this in a drum-like fashion.

History just got a standing ovation.

New Beer For A New Beat.

Movable Ovation seeks Movable Inspiration.

Throughout the entire history of banning, I just assumed.

In the blackest corners of banning, I created infrastructure.

Banning was too hard to beat, so I promoted confession.

Across the road from banning, I founded a school.

It's trees I prefer. Them to just about anything. Trees.

And it's creeks and their rocks. And it's breathing. Yes.

That is preferable. To words. Limited and quiet. Yes.

All these things. I'll take them just about any time. Trees.