Friday, November 07, 2003
the next surrender takes him inside
where they sit around a low table
sharing faces and mumbling truth
about the day and their hearts
a chill from the door sweeps
past him and they look up kindly


These things have opened up a space inside me.

because... or these... finally verified... only here

the cause stands... up... for the window grit... the

ashes... of eyes... danced... here... i recognized

all causes in that round... blast... arriving



Thursday, November 06, 2003
next comes hoping... just laughing... as windows shiver...

our genius exhumes big money... on the desert isle of whom...

rich now we find stones... sticks and lethargic verbs... amusing


a deferential sequence... tending downward... you said i...

then i said you... neither worthy of the exercise... o

take my pencil... away... fly my pen... off course...

tiny citizens below... look out... stuff falling from the sky


Wednesday, November 05, 2003
co'chui... al nimbo... du repedin blo...

or together we cross... every street...

or... carefully... you mark your ballot

while i wait in the car... or both of us

struggle to read headlines in fog


hanging, tipsy junior... come down from the attic...

collaborate with these relics unburied just now...

we want your advice... and your fingers... all over

this work... broken bottles of ancient health...

what they said when the door knocked...


Tuesday, November 04, 2003
you gotta serve somebody... all the people said

you have to put your best foot... forward...

taking a step away from... we forget... was it...

ignorance idleness idiocy ignominy... id... it

was fingering your profile... hairline to chin...

liking what it saw... so serve it...

blue simper... blue silhouette...


construed loosely these comments prepare us

for sudden... and stormy.... subliminal

losses... our soldiers know what they are in for...

each morning they subtract... they divide...

and we who crave sustenance from night to dawn

send them husky drums... canned apples... sweet butter


Monday, November 03, 2003
immaculate opus... waterdreams in a beige season


succulent vertigo... the ganges of hysteria


my score stood up... i was harping on the integers... collaborating

with the frozen nodes of lethargy... earnestly bereft of illusions...

and caffeine... my number took us by storm... a catalogue of luck

they called Journal of the Golden Verb... i was in all the papers


more cat food... dry chunks bleating in the dark.... an electrical

continuum... every good child lined up for a treat... every worker

paid and off to the bar... every frozen tundra jolted

out of geological revery... my complacency seeks cat food


before things get going... tell us about your trip...

we were gone so long our ears grew... we were gone

so long our hair evaporated patiently... you saw three

goats and a blind man... you wrote an ode to staying put...

a flash of sunlight... got our nerves going wild... inky


Sunday, November 02, 2003
sorry love poem... sorry i can't write it... sorry world...

in my condition... a mystic steroid... and red ribbon...

you never get old enough... and birds know it...

cranked... up in the sorry branches... good religion

for the sky... to preach... them birds and stars...

two sorry songs... fetching remarks... good teeth


one beat... i made it easy... no breath... a sentence

pretending to be itself... spilling over onto gravel...

it's one beat... farther than the beach... telling you

how we marched up like drowsy students... over

the seawall into the surf... and its one beat... so

humiliating... one sentence... doing time for now


all my saints and souls... god bless you... ghosts in my third drawer

down... you finally... assigned an agent...flew me out

of this thuddering asylum... or you stood up to carry me

out when i spun too quickly... carving my name on my nose...

following it... down this hall and out... always there

growing something new for the winter... something bright


without us and putting off the necessary... i meant... you can

have my junk... i want you to have it... there's no room here

and the floor is beginning to sag... i said... but i really meant

that i had a good time yesterday... with and without you


tripping the vacuum cleaner... up... so the hall flips down

where we wish to be... in a solitude of dry banter...

plucking firm anecdotes from the ripeness of island life


instead you give a joining boost to the keeper

whose elephant validates our perception

that surprises lurk and linger round every tree


these remarks remind me to assert... before evening...

that i have never had a thought... there are no thoughts

in illinois, paris, winnipeg or anywhere... to call my own...

i am a thoughtless person... with words...

stumpy fingers pointing any way... the river turned to ash...

when i tried to think... damp matches...

dirty pockets... made in america


Saturday, November 01, 2003
a band like this... and you should be sleeping... through oceans

of ink... everyone said they loved it... versions of irony twisted

back on itself like baroque ironwork... we can dance... or

leave it alone... by morning x will equal all dark trees


next to hearing... what the artists made... shivered some timbers...

all they wanted turned chastely towards the sun... rivers run

backwards... an envelope falls from the postman's hand... and

these new colors remind everyone... their time is the best time...

their time is the best...


slanted or thrown from a window... it's all politics... a blanket

and a blank stumbler... ruination trusted... to heal your head

you need a fumbler's hammer... going back to seeing the usual

sights... a mess of disintegrating rhymes... and purchases


back to finish your phrase currently

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