Friday, November 14, 2003
you can't leave it like this... a suspended sentence... longing

knowledgeable and sane... a regular circuit of intuitive... wait

we want a pop... a soda... a can of... let's go...


once promised a lift through... what they called the gardens...

blue and black wire pulleys... an orange crate... new tires...

free me... cried the noun... carnivorous and mobile...

the yellow side of the tree... ages... then lunch comes

with important papers to sign... and we back out timidly


little things are not thoughts... what can you do

with the dry insect... a boy's marble... a red

wooden block... let them be... forget about it...


let an electrical sign... let it utter... let it smile...

call you home... there was a letter... finally...

and a pattern tapped into the dream surface...

the famous writer... finally... says a word... now lost


over the calf's head... a signal to believe in ghosts... that

the poets of distant lands call us back to the earth

is probably a lie... they are as unhappy and unfulfilled... as

you... friend... quaint... and small... in your exotic hat


Thursday, November 13, 2003
sturdy resources for stupid poets... on sale now...

for the sake of pete... bound in the flesh of... just

in the margins... with a different ink... unsatisfactory

on the line... before work action... stops it... smokes

returns the compliment... we stand begging... crows


how forgotten leaves you... fumbling like a drunken clown...

wishing never would begin... now... before the stewardess

arrives with help... recognizing her own complicity


which hands understood as... the version we knew... ourselves

in frames and standing... linear passions... afoot...

suggesting that winter nights are... new moral purposes


Wednesday, November 12, 2003
scared of this night... flying, jilting, winding... a leaf

reddens by the side of... a book carelessly bound...

and all hell breaks loose... pressure behind the eyes


marshalling your resources... or believing in joy... a leap

precedes what was said... under breath or breathlessly...

by nameless ones... I understand you, sir. There must

be some who...
now... this parade has drums...

that go way back... to first street... and farther...


Tuesday, November 11, 2003



my company settles claims you are calling me
every afternoon around three just to ask
why the rock stars die and the poets live
these are matters better left to experts
with eyes on the news who have no life
to dilute with two parts interest and one
part fire the rest of the day i work and
wait for the sun to shine on channel two


quiz me... call me your spanish dog... i had a thought

in church... it corralled my hysteria... sent me home

without amazement... and the door knocked or...

the bell rang... twice... i answered like a saint


green pencil... green... o... pencil... dots made

green by a green... pencil... tapping... tapping

nobody knew... and no one knew... about green


Monday, November 10, 2003
can be trying to make language out... of pretending to have

no body... so this here... loosens the yoke... or [place

the next egg pun] here... bodies have windows... say...

bodies have windows... too...


nearer this mongolian stew... than a geriatric boast... and this

is what comes of joining clubs
... for sticks and pennies...

lost under only... a parcel from the wilderness... sends us

out stomping... the steppes look good this morning, ghengis


whose voice had.. o... an author smoking... no...

breathing to assert... a body... made for standing...

a theory like juice in the morning... turns to fire

slithers herpetologically skyward... for more breath

under the slightest ideas of trees... and snow


Sunday, November 09, 2003
standing but not... on any thing... this freedom collaborates

with night terror... a quick leap up the stairs... what the others

believe... what they say... that's where i stand... until morning


made from a calling... it's green and easy like the day you

taught me about god... i was smiling at the back of the book...

where salt rivers ran blue and red... hear us now... we have

every right to sing the keys... or twist his facts into yes





Saturday, November 08, 2003
digging isn't free here any more... pay at the front desk... some money

from your uncle s'il vous plait... accosted by the nervy gent

out back... we've got our sweaters now... go tour sweaters... sweating...

tour london france and underpants... a slippery slope that...

instead of pretending... we'll smoke cigarettes and dream... for real


i saw what you said... and took it away... tell me

you... said it... i wasn't pretending you there... i

was everything and nothing... finally... a sickness

accumulates around... this i... and this you...

we pretend to dance... and your hands are cold


some... some wiser going... likens to a quarrel and figures

plenty... some falling down and knowing... or finding in a cough

the long truth... all our mornings... made of breath... voice

hardly some deliberate... pace... a step then going farther


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