Friday, March 07, 2003

i'm sorry... i wasn't there... for you... darling

call me... a coward.. a selfish jerk... call me

something ruder... a lettered dolt... a pickle...

for you... i wasn't there... when the stormy sea

rose... ripped and howled... i was standing on

some other corner... there was a loud boom...

i was distracted... i'm sorry



exacter than something... this is a pome about nothing...

it's a capitalist pome of portable value... fits in yr wallet nicely...

tell me a story... with a house in it... and a patched window...

everybody jumps up when the poet of capital... enters...

who has the right to make a pome about nothing... a grey dream...

a foolish moment with tennis in it... the number eleven...

the people want pomes that mean exacter than nothing... that scream...

about the president... the stars.. the girl and the boy...

the people revile the poet of portable breath...

...so should we all... each and all... revile



Thursday, March 06, 2003

twenty seven... now thirty two... pencil dots

stand for a sore back... a callused middle finger...

a head narrow... and sharp... as a doorcrack...

but eyes like... sunflowers... a modest explosion of

glory made out of something open... less than breath...

stout encounters... from all these foreign ports



had an exception... under this blue spruce... now white enough

but you never tried to quit... you finished... and said

winter hasn't got a chance... we have all the poetry...

and a dance becomes... something yellow...

in the brown fields... over there... where they found the bodies...

we had permission to stand where the sun might catch us



not so fast... in the rectangle some true things lurk

beyond the perfect angles... out in the pure white

deserts where... ten or twelve ghostly hermits

set out with baskets every morning... thistles in their eyes...

to beg some few grains of rough laughter... gathered from

some imperfectly circular... insect or bird



Wednesday, March 05, 2003

nothing but words... out by the garage... words

and the shadows cast by good intentions...

"tell me... did you ever get to Florence"

no... a storm came up over Lake Como...

blew us all to Bucharest for the weaselfest...

instead



it's against the law to be... worth

a few eggs or a few beans... you might

be greater... like a periscope or a pancake...

we've missed the better chance... to cover

our remarks with fresh produce... new

challenges lie down like logs across...

each of our precious streams... rivers of

blue accomplishment... grand reputation



Tuesday, March 04, 2003

an average working day consists of plenty of good home-cooked
possibilities... a walk around the waterfall of impending blue...
a dash up to the cliff of "premature balditude"... yes...
they can tell that something has changed in your bifocals...
never rely on sudden memories... they have become real enough
at the bottom of your sock drawer... under your bed...
atop the thundering bookcase


corporal punishment makes a big comeback...

tell your... because... to the ambiguous stones

this is just one more collaboration between

the benders and the bent... the callers and the called...

everybody wants a better view... "yet the poet says..."



Monday, March 03, 2003

it only lets you... no... how should i put it...

history sounds like a night cat in the garden... no...

accepting his apology, we stood around like very small

experts... turning into a family of artists...

but... no... let's just breathe on purpose



lost it again... and you thought we only had pencils...

or neck pain... that burns like old leaves up to your

eyes like a thought... if you'd written it... like a song...

dreading the music that comes when... the best of the day

tumbles into a puddle... "let it smell like television"

gather in small groups... complain



assume that the sky has a plan... that pencils come from

faroff places like indiana or... better yet... don't stop

testing that very real pain at the back of your neck...

burning like old leaves up into your eyes like...

an idea... a good reason to keep... forgetting to hate

clouds, dancing, silence, or electricity



how many bad things tackled your truth today?

when they float at you... scream "I am a golden child!"

maybe your family history is a board game...

you be the shoe... let them become rich and aloof



if it comes back pretend you are an oak tree...

then let all your leaves fall like tiny hatchets aimed

at the question... when has it ever been different?

look through windows... stand beside doors...

never ever lean on the walls



Sunday, March 02, 2003

pedal faster, graymarch, pedal like the dickens

into the woods over the grassy knoll pedal

toward the pond and the rockpile down by the

quarry... look at it shimmer... look at the shine

then pedal back like an ugly bug... tell the story

by the hearth fire... make it up... wait for the

kids to go to sleep at last... sleep and wait



about this old ceremony think again...

do you really want to put your fingers there...

what will the oxen do to your new shoes...

and these crowded stalls reek of garlic and last night's gin...

consider a smaller, brighter space...

consider a voice simple as heart stone



Saturday, March 01, 2003

encourage your moths... keep the lamps lit

not some guesser... just some swimmer...

in night seas to shore light... that's a figure for

the reader... says... matters go further

...but not so fur... best to shade yr eyes...

as the surface brightens up...



then this architect walks into a bar and says...

a shot of lethe, barkeep...

all his buildings had fallen down... you see

he wants to forget... so he pulls out a little

greek... and orders lethe...

but there's no lethe today...

so he... takes a look down the bar

and notices a shaggy pup with a beer...

says... i'll have what he's...



o the purposes fall down...

and o the windows feel unsure...

never tell a friend you have something

better to do... it insists on an ugly

revelation...



take the cellist... talk to him

about flowers...do something with his hair

we'll listen and kiss patiently... his fingers rip

down the strings... a satyr... a swoon...

and then...

everything... all art...

makes enough sense... sense enough...

for us to get on with

a day's demolition...



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