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May 2011

April 2011

a rich red point begins

    Start the lower case in prison. Secret full of song. 

    Set the guitar straight. Eyes full of cello. This

    is not a riddle unless. Eyes have secrets you know.

    So this is a riddle. Which the dawn upends for good.

Subscribes to the critical nexus of Just Lighten Up A Bit

This Is Meant To Be More Joyful Even In Our Awful Than

Anyone Can Imagine Yes More Fun Than Even That. What if

Keats had never said that thing he said. You Know. That.

We'd still be in the dark about our evenhanded ifishness.

Or would have reckoned & taken it on for a soft surmise.


Listen HERE.

for wanting to be taken

This way we study on the grass to guess 

who stood here a hundred years ago today 

apart from the birds whose heirs are

having their say over there up the hill.

Pretty soon they'll have to move again

and give away all their books. To good

students. Then cite the truly rare case

of one who noticed everything is on fire.


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along the safer stream

The same poem includes "Heart begging for a rhyme"

and "Tart serving passed the food of Time."

Some of these poets want to tell a story.

The kids are lost - "pleasurably lost, one hopes."

Long conversations with himself weren't central 

Living spaces or even hallways but more like

Annexes appended to the main house and stretching 

Off into the scrub of an ill-defined "back there."

Mostly unconscious. Of its feet and the trade-off.


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says it was fiction before it came real

Justice sets us an edge. We cut our fingers.

These are prickly times. Earwax Taxes & War

Eternal. Sounds like a damn good show.           Let's

Go. And lug along our chemical dessert.

Let's kick around Lunch & Death.             Whose

Skull we can mash up fastest in Beer.


What say we try not to cry now please.


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sent to fill the pretty poem

It's a fervent time

after all. These callous birds have just what

they want now. As our water hits the wall. 

Some need reins in some next.  Just what they want

and we don't hardly any of us have it.



if we cut off that first part. A new one

-call it a door or a not closed thing-

grows apparent and important. Our water licks

fresh dirt and stone. Burmed up for good. 

And we'll stop this war and the next once

the dead kids get here with their excuses.

Or we think so. We think so yes.


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he'd been a big wheel at home but not here

Trying hard not to say Something. A monument.

Far from talking about it.

I'd dream up a concoction.


"May prose and property both

die out" (LN) & rush me

to an arcade of lightning bugs.

Frame the breeze. I've been

Looking past the world so long or

not turning it into anything. 


"This feeling is not sinful

what one does with it may" 



This feeling and what

might one do with it. I

take the time to. Say.

Paint the yellow pane.

Carve an ochre cave. 


Then. Go done.

And shadow mute.


Listen HERE.