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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... back to finish your phrase currently  |