Friday, July 11, 2003
yes... some questionable rain... had us believing in all of the days of the week...

not yesterday... then we had our picture taken... standing beside a turkish mirror... with shadows...

tomorrow practices deception... but we cannot be fooled... our bikes have new tires...

and then... next to the creek... there's a tree we're kind of partial to...




an adverb has arranged the mood... flooded the room

with light... and excited conversation among guests

who don't know anything but are trying to find out...

talking about anything... the fabulous picture on the far wall...

the carpet's sad fur... who meant what was really a joke...


if i am angry you don't know it... you don't know it

if i am hurling boulders down a cliff toward the newcomers...

you don't know how much i want them to go away...

you miss it... you don't get it... because i'm not trying...

i'm not even trying to say it...
she said... singing


Thursday, July 10, 2003
...as a reader, though, I conclude that the poem is formally incoherent. And I am doubly suspiucious of incoherence as a principle of design.

hand me the wrench... anonymous etched in the handle...

like a figure engraved against a storm... luck... i will turn

this bolt a few more inches to the right... tighter now

because... wits having failed... brute force has a way...

still... not smart enough... to play... with the older children

even here... under nightclouds... among fireflies...

but playing well enough... single... by those lights...



agreements and... blunt satisfaction... hands full of white flowers

and small red words... these things... insurgent roundness

for the day... a circle you had carved on the back of my hand...

now my amulet against a fault... i hadn't expected such love


what happened stood on my toes... asked me to dance... slowly


this time you will take me into some garden

and bury my hands in soft dark soil... like a post...

up to the elbows... call my name and slowly close

your eyes to the sun... i will wait for your advice...

turning yellow red... more blue... moment by moment




Wednesday, July 09, 2003
that voice couldn't be mine... so interesting... did you hear

that we are coming to your town soon? i will bring my voice...

now i want to go... read a pome by a pote... who knows...

or thinks... that knowing is not always saying...

in such an interesting voice... but singing... is...


when someone dies your hands disappear into your saying nothing that could possibly help... so a line of sound is not helpful... and helping patches not a thing... the matter pounds earth like the feet of a large jumping man... the matter is a giant... when someone dies... go go go to the night... like a sleep-walker looking for money... more than a few coins... go to the night with your wallet open


o wishing the soup can away has troubled us...

spun our yellow gaze out from the making

toward the seeing for... someone else... whose eyes

have taken by storm... us... the last children... lost

and safe in the marble halls and gardens of paint


Tuesday, July 08, 2003
do not sleep on this side of the wire... settled

like an old shoe at the back of the closet...

we expected you to rise flourescent... roses

sparkling eyeballs... not pickled slumbrous...

not vaguely dissatisfied... a genie... a sliver


knowing what details promote the steadiest surfaces

we have come to take charge of the performance...

trust us... we have years of experience... studied

blank eyes... and voices like fresh cement...

step aside... let our trained professionals pronounce

your true sayings... calmly... artfully... sullenly


nice to have hidden my hands in the sky...

up to the elbows... really... squinting like a frog

i become a generous spectacle... tumbling wet...

dodging bird strikes... smiling through it...

something in hand redeems the day


Monday, July 07, 2003



"It's not hard to think of examples of writers who essentially use poetry to create a fantasy image of themselves which they are trying to get the reader to validate, even if this is done indirectly. I see this across traditions and styles. Work of this kind is tiring to read. You feel used. To what extent is poetry used as a place where one is allowed to more safely harbor and nurture one's neuroses?"

a small favor... tell me you have seen me... once

when i wasn't thrashing about... i was sitting still

not reading or writing or even... but... looking

at the far wall... enjoying the view... not thinking...

but taking... the wall... in... i was lost for a second

and happy... and you saw me there... just then



flowers know something worth showing... despite...

broken bikes venal aldermen coughing internal disruption...

blue thieves... yesterday's goliath... mercenary

winter proposed what's been taken... return what's been taken

for granted... restored to original wonder of tongue...

an old telegram... not worth sending forward... botched color


debating everything... our national talk turns sharply...

we had our rights... school kids out back still stutter...

o the storm rolled through... now... flags everywhere...

good advice like sunshine pricks the top of a bald head...

in our marching... in our marching mood... old news...


Sunday, July 06, 2003
the ecstatic will not arrive... our aluminum clock shines...

elegant ticking... cool as an idea about to come...

the firedance... the redsong... belong elsewhere


(elsewhere... you can't say somewhere else anymore

too many clear thoughts become an obstacle... apply

noise here...)


the ecstatic flight surrounds our clarity... steps over it...

or on it... you remember the night bugs and sweat...

hoarse every morning... telling the day's thin tale


knowing what to call the plants along this path

would invite more names to perform ruthlessly...

cutting us into star-shapes with tongues to say

yes... i see... give me some more information...

knowing the right name... pleases... the wrong names

confuse a group of boys and girls out by the path...

they think we're buying something


i had simmering a rigid complication... understood as a book

that reads itself then turns into a bird... whose obnoxious song

blames me for not having understood... i didn't change my life

fast enough... a sin culture... a world of blaming... moved into

the light open spaces... where i became an adult for you


Saturday, July 05, 2003
desperate heaves of youthful stuff... the oceanic

ruse... portrayed mirror-like upside down...

tornadic formalities while nothing actually happens...

aside from the crafting of a path... an unessential

but helpful direction... what we will do from now on





just because i'm not talking about it... about it...

the signals fall down... bloody red light... okay

we have to sell something quickly before the holes

appear... not talking about the falling... just hoping

like a youngster for a useful vacation... patched

or down in a mystery shelter... best wishes


say something marked for killing... o violence

shouts a sailor under red skies... nobody answers...

said something your sister approved... until the check bounced

hardly higher than uncut grass... believe us when we tell you

the strangest light comes from inside a hollow tooth


an astronaut in blue... a round for the room

hurry... the sun says

just over the limit... we pretend


a guessing game... what did they mean

it's nothing... not important enough

you find too... it's the game...

see... ya... take it easy...

i pledge allegiance

to the word that stumbles out... to the purloined

page of light... sky sounds bent back black...

dada fathers... were there mothers...

stein... joy... ohara... ashbery... schuyler... koch...

berryman... lowell... blindness... you meant... dylan...

polish poets under bushels of field grass

ginsberg... levine... kinnell... kunitz... rich...

snyder... berry... too serious saints of carmel...

what did you mean... while teresa laughed


back to finish your phrase currently

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