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January 2017

before the injunction

Re: the reality is in touch with itself with what is not itself.

A muzzled bear. Extraordinary. Hey. Take it for a social animal.

I’m a social animal. Meat & Language. Will tell lies to anyone.

Incoherence not in the barren maple the gray the sleeping field.

Flags come in many colors. My heart’s in the highlands. A stool.

Raised a fool. Where did my country go once the. So quiet here.

Everyone so quiet here trying to understand what rises up from a.

Singly vague. Gently disappointed. People don’t get to be free.

Fallen through the nets that used to swing us. Slovenly all day.

Something died. Something died. Something died. Something died.

And the lake’s in a rush to get over there. Over there there’s a.

or run away

You’ll see. I can write as celarly  as the next person writing.

My figeres may not always hit in sync with brain’s fring,

but that’s waht DELETEs are for. No, it’s the other brain’s issue.

Suppose it has nothing to say, but that’s the normal storm. It hears that

what it may say will offend someone, as in what it says will expose a weak

and foolish person, a fallen peron  who sometimes … well … isn’t

smart wnough, hasn’t considered the deeper nuances and historical

/critical/philosophical boundaries, hasn’t found the irght word,

lacks wisdome. So now this other brain embraces the not-sad play

of syntax and flushed modifiers, battered lexical doorstops, craven pronouns.

It hopes that the reader who seeks joy or interest will find some, but still

it understands that it will fail far more often than it usceeds.

This is okay, a responsibility even, as befits the pigeon of equilibrium.

not a caption



topic under which

the poem starts to unravel

before     no

our violence comes

it comes from our left/their right see

what did any of them have for dinner later

this hitting is American hitting you know

then getting the kids to bed tending a sore arm

then quick sleep without dreams no dreams then




finding in the moment

that it was good enough for Shakespeare that’s enough to turn

not away but into an incoherent bird an inflorescent storybook

of gosh and golly songs along the lines of brooks or fabricated

of stifled yawning awnings the ones above and bellowing bliss.

I objects to itself and subjects me to some sky blue foolishness.

in the arbitrary face of it

To turn away from everything but the twenty-six — or not that

To turn from the norm I’m not what the first not even the latest.

Would I let in objects. Well there are some nouns even concrete.

Nothing to say about the turnstile but in the slow pivot even

Shudder at the empty windy end. Steel. What will clear speech.

Of its lazy gesture of its cough of the night we needed care.

what the hell you are talking about

because the topic is and will remain ambiguous. sky birds

they say are not angels and dirty dogs are not onions yet.

they want to take you past language as to staring at white.

that we relate to each other as. trying to. wondering if.

it may be the cinnamon that puts off the birds. ignorance.

they say about winter has no friends and needs none. easy

as art recycling a blank cartridge. of conversation about.

us talking this way but not if we’d been born a difference.

released from the cloud of not knowing the range or scale.

rates are likely negotiable. you can’t pretend you aren’t.

no threat just imagine

a long-woke family will tell me when to scrub

not that I’ve ever been to Loss Ang-gless but

here’s the latest item from the Chinese street

say a piece of iron delicate with flighty flaws

displaced me now and then kept the change

when I stuck to myself static as dry laundry

what taught

should be enough language to seen a few cars out here and say it

he bunched us up in storms unfriendly-like conditions not for poems

not for learning us now a big philosophy but pretty good for foggy novellas