finish your phrase: a temporary condition



Friday, April 18, 2003
laughing has opened a space for this god to fall down... in kindness or harsh hating... whenever it happens... you know what to think... think this is true... think this is a terrible shame... think we'll have to become better people now... after all... someone has taken it on... all on... and a laugh can mean anything... something like breathing every moment... doesn't worry that no one understands... we'll try not to worry so much


a sudden liquefaction of the merry-go-round


liking oranges and things of the sun... cool and hot

like cats... organic fertilizer... certain kinds of music...

liking will have its way... with us... we all stand up

into the new day... heroic... bronze... self-

assured... these hours have engraved our names...

for the future... for tomorrow...

now we can take this next step... liking

porcelain and things of the moon



Thursday, April 17, 2003
you are not smart enough to say... just

stand in the corner... over by the door

you cheater... you shame us...

this has never been the game... now

you see... but it's too late...

shut up... let the ushers through



personality stands between... kingdoms...

look out... your true things... lag

behind... a parked car... don't

hope... be a sun-lizard today...

we have... but you say... so...

torture an emotion... your

thoughtless arm... a broken vase...

was always just an idea...



a word... this is no time to work...

results tremble... a shack

rattles... each symbol shudders...

go do something simple...

don't look here... can't you see

the door is open... they're gone



a soft rejection... that thought

they expect... bound to an act...

never arrives... we have all

been disappointed... you cannot

speak... nothing comes

from your hands



a native fault... that these edges

have never gone soft or round... instead

you blamed something... call it bread...

dry fingers... sold by old women

just before sunrise... before smoke

told the clouds... this is yours...

these arrows and fields... these

patient animals... ignorant of time



you aren't good enough... not...

good... enough... turn in your

badge... the new man arrives

tomorrow morning... because...

you are not good enough...



Wednesday, April 16, 2003
astonished by these bosses... call me

a gruesome name... perpetrator...

aspirator.... i still think you'd

look better in the purple scarf... just

take off the feathers... stretch like galileo

into the night... hire yourself out for the spring



build me a cabin... get me a dog...
carve an old woman... from a rotten log...
sit up all night... listen to the bugs...
get real drunk... ...

never mind...
sit down... turn off the television...
read a book... some spanish mystery...
with guitars and blood...

there's no next... no then... no how
flowers arrive with the sun...
that's all



Tuesday, April 15, 2003
what seized us... tumbled us out into living

pretended we had miracles in our shoes...

and convinced us... what seized us drove

warm blood to tunnels... those soft hands...

so the machinery reminded us to try new things

... become friendly toward morning... smell better

for a new day... you know... we imagined

our own subtle authority over this garden



let centers
proliferate
from
self-justifying motions!

a. r. ammons

called a bad name... it turned him sideways
and he noticed for the first time a shadow
trickling down the far wall... he found it
beautiful... he wrote it down after
the camera failed... his fame bloomed
and settled him... we thought... as some
shadow writer... gray god... until the day
his car stopped unaccountably nearby
this place... and he became our genius
never writing a single word again...
but loving us... enough



Monday, April 14, 2003
you will make a pome about a room... and call it

The Wind that Blows through Any Old Place...

i will bend over your shoulder... mumbling

coarse assertions... the kind we used to love

when our hearts were in it... this careful study...

they called it mystery... i walked through the door

and found you flashing like an ocean on the floor






offering a broken finger... a license... my sincerity...

i'll stand to the side and let you organize our prosperity...

(everyone is straining to see the lions this morning...

they dance with open eyes along the honeysuckle boulevard)

teach us now... the singing dollars... the very cash of dreams



i walk standing still... some good stuff...no...

all our troops are smart and funny... so...

removing my shoes... "a slim and limber / silver fish"

takes over this space... commends good readers...

returns to the silken stream... its dream of plenty...

everybody goes on... to the end... that mirror there



Sunday, April 13, 2003
shaped by forces unseen... they've stumped us again...
tell me why you have to go... nobody... other than you...
has been able to repeat the musical mumbles of morning...
a branch from the heart... whereon sits a bird
that... we say... sings... then leaves words like
feathers... stupid bird pomes... it's palm sunday
... walk toward the door... sack the museum...
the prince invites us back for coffee...
nobody cares enough


frightened by the disarray... we hunker down
in familiar territory... wait for breakfast
humiliated by a blindness... we say...
it's beyond our control... and this honesty
...dishonesty... an engine... an itch
toward the wall... he hadn't counted on fire...
or trucks and barrels of suspicious liquid...


look... some turned gray...
a figure pushed
forward... a procession
your thought had
... run away... but
the art was too easy...
it dribbled from us
for the sake of...
a donkey... no...
the crowd will...
must... have their way



pretended to like it... never had much use for these rags

so let's go for a walk... you were going to say...

something about dry skin... no... not today

living is not always easy... in this dry skin...

a spiritual practice or limit... binds us to

the possible... the past... with its finger

in our eyes... its tongue in our belly...

insists... sad confusion must fall... dumb

toward belief... scratching out words as we go...








Saturday, April 12, 2003
i had enough power to color the sky a sad sort of stainless steel... then you asked for groceries... yellow red blue groceries from the bottom up... no one wants etchings any more... try careless black and white photos of streets and walls... still they prefer roses and cherubic fish... and this morning we were invaded by the americans... their fingerpaints smell like old milk and sushi... you can't remember a better time... to be alive


what happens to stale words when the sun appears...

a delusional frolic stumbles onto the lawn... these

scruffy young deer had better watch out... the traffic

doesn't care... and these big dogs remember in

their blood the ancient hunt... chasing light and meat

across the neolithic plain... then somebody whistles...

no... a bird's talking back to its branch... happy to be here



in advance of the circus comes a frog... a brown

not a green... frog... upending silver leaves

along the riverbank... for lunch lurks there...

light crumples the old year's growth now done...

we'll paint our faces... dance like pagan clowns

when the heavens shine... preposterously



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