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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 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... back to finish your phrase currently  |