 |
 |
|
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 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  |