 |
 |
|
Friday, August 01, 2003 a hand... very quickly... because
indian ghosts and horses want more time... don't betray your true thoughts... winter comes soon... what do we call these fragments... when we want more groceries... we go get them Thursday, July 31, 2003 and a skinny guy... not enough
for a shadow... lets a map drop here... later we read it... later we read and went there there there all over the skinny guy's map... trying to laugh west of morroco... a barren landscape stumped our rude postcards... look out for the thinness coming like a tsunami... look out for the volcanic ounces... and a skinny guy fumbles with his belt... his shoes hurt our toes... as we climb... his endless map ungrateful
pome... a flat one shuttles across... no bumps or ridges... no grit... just a word... this... peculiar idea with no insects attached... the problem of existence... or problems... rely on thinking something... not rolling in wetland... scratching nesting reeds... i felt this i felt it in my stomach... o yellow pome subtly aging... who you think... who you say Wednesday, July 30, 2003 what is the line... a door turns...
and we have found our terror... sliding like an old lizard... through rooms we'd saved for dancing and reading... we tried to sleep in the light... what was the line... scraped on limestone walls... under our famous bridge next up...
an uncertainty... a hestitation... a sparrow grounded for the moment... come see the people in the sky come see... the people... if they're looking they're looking down... come see the careless brown feathered... o yes... the nature poets packing up... moving on... but... i'm a nature poet too... look... a flower... a bug... i walked all the way... here... in my casual shoes Tuesday, July 29, 2003 lost it... just as well... it was
a silly thing... a worn out leash just snapped... into liberal ideas... smart people do things they understand... and said... done it...
see... you can't say the rules apply... a simple sentence with fingers... a drone behind the silver soul... you must not break the rules... but... here is a case... remembering itch of a breakout... learning the way by heart... we come full of important words here you
have a pointed tool... astringent weather... collected delight and forgot dark rooms for a while... say there's a fire... we're all coming over... you can't help but wonder where these choices will lead us... line up all the teachers... send them home... add it up... it adds up to a willful blindness Monday, July 28, 2003 But how late to be
regretting all this, even Bearing in mind that regrets are always late, too late! To which Orpheus, a bluish cloud with white contours, Replies that these are of course not regrets at all, Merely a careful, scholarly setting down of Unquestioned facts, a record of pebbles along the way. And no matter how all this disappeared, Or got where it was going, it is no longer Material for a poem. Its subject Matters too much, and not enough, standing there helplessly While the poem streaked by, its tail afire, a bad Comet screaming hate and disaster, but so turned inward That the meaning, good or other, can never Become known. (john ashbery, from "syringa") stood outside for a few minutes and let the rain... no... it rained on me because i was standing outside for a minute or two while rain happened... thinking about a dizziness cut from the rest of the day... spun without the spinning... and a few words shuttered up until sundown... correct me if i'm wrong... ideas... taken firmly in hand... disobedient to the end... melt and reminisce... in fact... dance shamelessly bent... under our crooked tango lanterns this morning...
the lawyer folds reasons into a slightly overcast sky... tell us about the violent assaults... we turn away with other things to do... a bargain to tolerate what comes... and provokes a generosity... quiet letters... if we judge them by their calm demeanor Sunday, July 27, 2003 i went swimming in the park... and i lied about it in my art... you tied me down and hit me so i cried and took back everything kept... what
nature holding back... says this moment is yours... what kind of knowing makes us... so permanent... a signal or a child... lit up... losing weight... felt... felt... here next to my pretty good... question some heavy-handed
aesthetic blindness... clumbers downstairs... bathrobe cigar lips... o joking about sickness... we asked you to go take a look at yourself... where does that lightness come from... that pleases us... so... human instants weathered in the backroom... a native tale untold and trembling Saturday, July 26, 2003 better advice on the craft... the
minute you thought it the music ran off... i forgot to plug in... to something i knew... it wasn't a small patch of land... not a handful of facts... not a face... i was desperate and the presses were running... so i opened a book forgiven
before a storm... you had forgotten the simile... yellow petals and red ones... excuses the opening... and the difficult language we drove... toward work... forgiven in code... breaks down all simple numbers... under the floor... inside the walls... unhappy birds falling and falling all the way... through our miracle i rose and
fell in your esteem... something i forgot to become... no doubt... my anonymity and obscurity... my ridiculous hat... a failure to engage precisely... i never ride the bus... i stand around with my eyes gouged out... always sorry and fortunate in my former fellows who send a thickening solitude... tremendous wedges... foreign coins whose spirituality...
a sudden affection for hereabouts... turns away from wicked abstraction... or reconstructs a loose affiliation... flowers... say... no they are not enough... but somewhat in that direction... an atypical thoughtfulness... shuns a cool blind word... if you are growing here... grow here... less an industrial monument... than what the dust became back to finish your phrase currently  |
