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


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