Friday, June 13, 2003
porcelain tubs... crazed... with feet...

a thousand in an open field... trees remember

how in summer they tottered over lakes...

stumbled into their own shadows... now

a thousand crazy tubs have come... with feet...

open... clean... inviting... sleep



"... and yet when Polo began to talk about how life must be in those places, day after day, evening after evening, words failed him, and little by little, he went back to relying on gestures, grimaces, glances."

from Invisible Cities by Italo Calvino, trans. William Weaver



Thursday, June 12, 2003
what creeps into saying... has always been there

hanging around in the day's mess... pretending

it had some target other than this... shape



who is this? did it rain for you as it did for me?

who is this? a string of slightly worn coffee beans?

who is standing under these words? exposed...



after a while everything is a fortune cookie...

turn on the light... open a book... read it

like some oracle... then listen... can you

hear an engine... gas-powered... ripping

down the world... then listen... footsteps

moving off... so significant... a sign

of what you wanted just before rising



troubling certainty... you said...

it had to be finished by today... and still

we dig deeper dirt... fingernails black

as the lessons we gave... night truths

blending forward to rise... beside

the morning window... minor fears

pushed off... remembering...

an absolute... always finishing again



Wednesday, June 11, 2003
write around the stump...

new air booms... a head trip... fresh sap

delivers as promised... tomorrow

when the big trucks come...

hauling our autobiography down the dark trail



you haven't gotten tired... given up... yet...

the funny lines... the applause... up in

your head... remembers books and books

of fun... why not go outside... smell them...

smell them all green and... a small riot

in bugland... make room for everyone else



in the box a stone relaxes... all good boys

and girls pretend... we have read everything...

we remember something grey and warm...

announcing the end of a regular service...

in a cold box the red heart smiles... at last

an excuse... a pretty... certain entertainment

for children and parents alike...



they're taking the trees away... today...

send us all away... into the pages of books

we love... birds and bugs jump out

to the next street... milder weather

on the acropolis... something in those

creators... folds our morning into quarters...

and he waits on the lawn... as egypt...

as china written carefully... once...

a black brown green... lightly gone



Tuesday, June 10, 2003
the shell... secreted... from a yearning...

goes past ghosts... words... clothing...

odors... beyond rooms full of personal stuff...

houses and streets... the noises we make

in them... mark us... mollusk mouth down...

beaming in our new circumstances... finally

owning the world we pretended to be



and then pretentiously enough he says you have to see it to believe it... that most ordinary lie as if the seeing could stand and command... everything... must fall...

... eyes always have it... save my sight... there's minor music in an electric fan complaining... or birdsong announcing... simple body noises... you have to see it to believe it... broken at last... and very very quiet

what's there turns into a new street and parks itself under the broadest shadiest tree... the neighborhood has changed... the neighbors replaced... houses and yards shining silver



Monday, June 09, 2003
stand down... avoid the wild children...

tend your garden... dig darker...

metallic song... for shovel...



we start to fall apart... cell from cell... not like trees in autumn... sure...

but the harder we try to keep saying the farther go words... away...

this is not a love pome... there's no you in we... tell me about

a dream... catching small angels by wingtips... listen to them cuss...

then you bury something in brown dirt... walk into a book...

i wanted to say... this is cool... but bit my tongue and bled



Sunday, June 08, 2003
excluded... a boy staring at wall shadows...

painted light... perfectly alone and...

but listening for a whirr... some scraping... to bring

it back... look mommy what i found... nothing

happened... talking and doing came to matter

in every day's open space... arriving gaily

leaving with the light... things to do...

put yourself away for now... left out...



trying hard to understand... but air rushes in

to take place... removing what stood... certainly...

always a day later... after the neighbors moved out

i'd find some little broken thing... a plastic knob...

a rusted gear... how they mocked me...

you will never know... never know... what we do

when all exits have been blocked



achilles lays down again... just a green bush

listening... hard plans blooming in a skull pot...

tearing the world to bits... he's a tough guy

with fingers for eyes... undone he's a mask

of certainty... still... like the last wave

worn back to a hardness in the sun



Saturday, June 07, 2003
talking unsettles... ideas everywhere like flies and dust...

bedside tales... any color in the night sky will tell...

darkbirds warble old punk songs to sundown... cancel

the guitars... free the horns... beat on the brat...

let all the boys dance crazy in their feathers... to dawn



organize history... get the words on time... tidy up

the basement... who brought the music... totem bulbs...

garlic fetish... rest in a wicker bed... sharpen

pencils... ready now... for the next test...

under your breath... gut deep resistance

to any steady satisfaction... tossed up... he

just wanna have something to do... tonight



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