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August 2016

opposite the crush

if this were emotional. all my sky were an exhibit. and of teeth.

pardon runny tears and nose. this emotional commission best-known.

for the day everything happened correctly. scheduled to be made up.

after one’s desire crickets and vultures. past horizontal wondering.

you for example cannot or must not be one. one sky of emotional eye.

one individual thread or threat of emotion. grin or grit of teeth.

your face was the tool you forgot to sharpen. in beauty a contract.

that your body had emotions. and you almost died. of a body in time.

being silenced in a range of light. quickly now. hush your face your.

well-known teeth. in buckets of stars. emotional as a certain thing.

aren’t you afraid. then the calm slope of a chair. you were beaten up.

if this were emotional or a single life. work the system this way or.

that. thought a friendly diner. everyone looking at the camera now.

i’m sorry i was afraid i was saying something emotional in my teeth.

it was a quarter after sadness and freedom. i was reading a book for.

the last time. just from the legalities and emotions. how red & pale.

this respect for life and color. carried all the way to the door. she.

the first of the beans. has her own responsibility and seemly emotion.

you could feel then many millions of seeds. one of you will be detained.

by the shallows over there

is an artist. like the wasp. its voice in this room. as voice. its body on the other side. inside the wall. puts through the wall. a sound.

is an artist. so what you’ll do when you get there. what anyone cares about out there. having told them it’s nothing. nothing at all.

is an artist. of never quite getting there.

this is the same language we use. to do anything in the world that needs language. let us be precious together. if not precise.

around the places you’ve never been. maine, for example, there’s a prophecy. in all your life you’ll never visit. exactly never there. precisely not there.

is an artist. as understanding a whole life has avoided itself. look away, please. nothing to see here. a whole life has done just that. and who let it.

as one who dislikes most inches and marks of itself. its face its voice and lies. the whole sky of a mind. without god. it is a silly one. with. who knows. a chance.

to have done this and that. without love but in its shadow. say you are for it or against it. this or that.

as an artist. or a person.

far as they know

It looks like the lake on a partly cloudy afternoon. White below blue, then a boat pulling a kid. Then, once the waves pass, gray. Then, you guess, some dusty green murk.

And the lake’s coming at me. But don’t worry. I’m safe inside.

You make a mistake to write from anywhere but … sure, the love may show up as anger or confusion or fear or determination … but love’s informing or mistaken … from the basement and below it.

Or in their beauty they turn away like cattle knowing or not knowing market day comes soon. Or heron-legs tap the lake surface and there’s a little fish. So they fly.

in which

what finds itself offensive. to what.

as far as such could be. or. such can be said. or. said by one who says it.

writing turns up. the underside for reading. or. repeats the well-lit. or shaded surface.

the shaded and the frightening. parts. unavailable to one state of life. one must be like this. not that. not that ever anymore.

stop your tongue. your tongue is stopped. fingertip taps. a way.

in the right circumstances

a line of story is what’s wanted if not needed. a line of light that rises like an imp and flips flag-like tentacles into our guts. from there we only want to ride somewhat at one with it. or like buddies on a short trip swapping lies for a moment. wait. not that. of course. not that. a line of story must conform to the light and the likely.

it has given itself to nurturing defeat. a line of story applauds its place in the body. where watery sprites viscous and misty fly out. given back to the world its mother. longing on the concrete step. hoping to the kids the bell calls. liquid line of story skips a stony spot. spills a vacant track.

since there’s no music in a flat wall, a line of story beats on it. beats on a wall. simply at first then. works to a doubly triply beaten line of story deep in the wall’s forgetfulness. and the dancing bends to a friend in ocean’s room like a radio. supposed to dance before the song that might never turn up. rainlike in which the drum thumps tales to any sky. of any man or woman in the story line. is not simple.

old critical column of stone

shy of
saying and sayings, stoops to

the clever
when anything dissolves memory

setting aside
this bright horizon, I’m on

an innocuous
precipice, existential and devout

I do
love greens, and naked blues tell me

this is
what God’s kind of about today, but I

am unformed
in a static, doubtful & credulous gaze

no matter
since the heroic catalogue’s expiration

I opt
for intransigent confusion, I can’t

unroll this
last piece of what he’s supposed to do

with all
this vacancy, with all this open sea

he’s only
been good for matching busy with busy

gull with
gull, castoff doll with new companion

his bright
armoire is stuffed with angelic eyes

‘be this
without your body old traveler’ look

the edge
between two clouds conjures tense arcs

of what
can’t be agreed upon, the cold or heat

of our
constricted age, of remarkable machines

holds up
the wriggling sky, holds up the coach of meat

holds up
our stateless mumbling for awhile