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October 2013
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January 2014

December 2013

turning into something

They are planning the next outrage, more than thinking about it. And we expect it.

But not in our lifetime. Probably not. Though things move quickly now.

I remember rotary dial milk bottles and all.

I remember the draft the passion the boring job. Which is part of the plan.

Nothing much is changing. So quickly. When it does

I’ll be thinking about back yards soldiers sheets on a line.

Skinny green birds. 

as beacons come warnings

Way way long ago it says way long
In winter’s numb garage Jesus hid his sister
Behind the bike the flowerpots and windowscreens

And she and she and she she says
The world’s kinda busted all day today
The world’s got a crack and a burn today

I don’t know when I stopped reading the poets, but one day I knew it. I had stopped reading them without missing them. But now that I know it, I miss them. This is what happens with any love, I suppose. Its loss becomes … what are those two notes? A moderately high one followed by a moderately lower one. Something in the pipes or in the trees. A breathing or a birdsong. It’s given and then it’s taken. Two in one.

maybe it was modern

THIS HAD     no  pronunciation any of us could recognize. We set it up and gazed as if it were a lump of fire. In short, it was the moment we lived, as if it were our whole life. This one this one the one and this one.

I WAS     an unregulated flute for awhile. Then I took up unbuilding History with my barely formed sequences. The breath that came, of course. And misunderstood each phrase of the score. 

WHEN THAT     had used us long and long, we bent to crabs. We glowed a selfish red. And something asked us to listen. Not a new part of everything.