finish your phrase: a temporary condition



Friday, April 25, 2003
spun from the indian guitar... he laughs when the cowboys arrive...

and still the waters stumble over hard rock...

take us for a ride... son... tonight... save us in the morning

when the songs come spinning... pages... and pressure

from all points... flowers for your saxophone garden



look here... and carry a big stick... a thin stick

how long before it snaps in your hand...

hold it up above your head... wave your shirt

on it... for the others to see... and come

to smile with you... around and around...

greetings from the dizzy world... turning

into light... palms wide open... the early

economy of... dancing like a kid



Thursday, April 24, 2003
soda crackers... heard from them after a long spell...

they buried themselves in their work... and we understood

... everything generalizes... but nobody means it...

because tomorrow we'll have particular things to do...

your way... my way... a silver line from morning on...

let's go for a walk... over by the lake... in the cool



somebody with a big voice must be careful to hear the littleness crouching down in the corners... some can do it.... everybody appreciates a sensitive big voice... it lounges around this place... like an avuncular smile... taking requests affably... honking for another beer... generous tips for the waitress... we now have ears like flowering orange trees


Wednesday, April 23, 2003
you know i'd give it all up for you


put enough of us in a small enough room... and

you'll hear some extraordinarily fine lies... this season

is holding its breath for the next good dancer... then

we were looking for the children... under books under

shirts and shoes... they came slowly... smarter than they knew...

here we've got a window... now birds and branches...

but the kids are looking like another day

Imagine that I am now commenting on this piece. I'm telling you that I don't like it very much... just as I don't like too much else of what I've written here. Still, I'm intrigued by the fact that I can do it at all... that any words come. Once I was a very quiet boy... at least that's how I seemed to myself. I would do well to become that quiet boy again, I think. But I will continue this for awhile. It is not confessional. It is not overtly therapeutic... or descriptive of any ordinary things. It is just language happening. And I'm content enough with that... in the absence of actual content.



running turned out to be... less helpful than standing

straight in the face of subtle accusations... the act

itself hasn't changed... nothing else promises... such

deep love of this broke nose country life... out back

you are losing all your patience... but here we've got

some fine human song... kind of goes like water boiling



along with this romantic mumbling... a road map suddenly

blown every which way... we had to talk

like people under stress... like people slowly burnt

by a brilliant maneuver... we tried our best... "and dear

you never once... blamed me for... a thousand things..."

 




Tuesday, April 22, 2003
stand outside the season... put your autobiography

on the ground... beside tulips... rough stones...

grape hyacinth and brick... let us know

when you plan to fly up... we will warn the birds

when flightless you... takes wing... stripped

and sullen like... some new pop song



Monday, April 21, 2003
let something suddenly beautiful... call

you... like a sky or a stone... let it...

teach your lessons today... o boy...

a field trip... there isn't enough space

in here... too many hangers... rip out

this wall... push into webs and dust...

we will study america... inside out



is it black dirt or burnt earth... those

cardboard sheep need better light... push them

farther from the scrubby trees... aligned

and resigned... the country is sulking...

plenty of dead stuff on the road... plenty

of significance... here and there... keep

greening... keep an eye on those trucks...

a mist gets rising and falling... concrete



Sunday, April 20, 2003
ending up with a candle... lit... in your hand you finally understand... that the shimmery surface must not be taken for wisdom... adequate or inadequate... it cannot get you through a day any better than a toy balloon might lift you a few inches off the floor... in the long run... there is no long run for us... june bugs... and the green grass... and the circular sky... in somebody's eye... keep breathing


we're off and running... he's not a junior... so...

save big money at... these things we say...

sound like announcements... eating chocolate

bunnies... and the clock chimes twelve times...

check your oil... turn around a few times...

whistle toward the snake... rustle the news...

paper... until it sheds... these hard-shelled

candy-coated almonds... and broken teeth



Saturday, April 19, 2003
brazil... revives your interest in a burning world..."wait"

she whispers, "these are not the ones i expected"...

and yet... they have arrived... some speaking

gorgeous bird thoughts... singing purple catastrophe

out into the humid night... this impatience remembers

long days in the jungles... bug-thick solitude...



architecture... stands up... says you better look

now or you'll miss it... the dog whines... lying down...

missing everything... architecture proposes... we've got

something going on... cities and combustion engines...

we do... but this old dog's got an itch... scratch it



highway... suggestions... on the horizon... a small green...

a smaller purple... put all of these farms somewhere else...

franchise abandoned gas stations... growing things...

check your oil... blended for the season... startling

apparitions... birds and dogs and grass...



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