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Friday, August 08, 2003 asking... my hands twinkle... have
you accounted... stood for some... political... fragment... and our secret knowledge... dribbles down... toward the people who lean inward at their work... sold again... while hoping... and putting some money underground... where nothing shows hands... how to twist the neck of our final... formal candidate... over time
i became a tense grammar... unsure of dog's function in the next sentence... at last saying nothing... letting bad colors rise on my visible skin... no more remembering people long out of sight... or worrying about their consumptions... it all went psychological on me... specifically not beautiful or generous but unresolved into a few facts like weather... job... room... and still... can't reach the thick red book that fell... behind... falling... takes my figure elsewhere... diagrams it... all the way down now that
popcorn is official... captain beefheart leads us up the riprap... to our lunches under scrub brush shelter... from here... there's a big old bird... big old eagle hawk... minding its bugs... and we're more hungry than curious... launched into this figure of dreaming horse... darkish sunblots all over our actual eyes and arms... in honor of Thursday, August 07, 2003 the person here has handled disappointment called it home to the garage and fed it oranges... the person here is looking at you through his fingers... church and steeple people upside down... this person is waiting and will wait for tomorrow's more interesting catalogue of shivers and shoes... he asks you out for a walk and turns you into words cracking
into a dove's hard eyes... i'm sorry it was beautiful... and made me different than i had been... these dimensions... kept shifting until i laughed and took a day off from pretending... to be... you know... a writer... so i'll sleep in a book... i can work hours and days on the perfect phrase... and let the instant burn i really
mean it... you know... and i say again that... o i believed you... while you said it... doggy trust seems natural enough... i waited for the light... walked to water at dusk and counted bugs on my arm... i mean they bit me... o i believed them... wanting enough of me... to know for sure talking back
to the book... in another language maybe french... or tagalog... in my blue silk dress i don't have to explain myself... you found me... in an old forest... brought me out... a rare amphibian... with teeth... without religion... but a hungry mouth to say... i'd like a blue silk dress for saying things in french... or tagalog... to empty my head of words that come from reading... a book Wednesday, August 06, 2003 sometimes i think there are better
things to do... a glass of water... a dig in some garden... what makes me think... o just to type a word connives to become... a complication... and more than... i meant... cyrano you ain't so handy as you think... i meant to look you up... i never got to your town... i stay home my book stained
by... a strong light.... smokey pages... not so bright as that other one... i was too young to remember... the fire that burned moliere's cousin to a crisp i would say... is it au fragile in paris... just guessing... my book... remembers everything didn't say why because to say would make
first off...
who can't dance... who can't keep a beat... heartless... who... then... tell us who... will save us... from a human uselessness... from a soft blue normal... i wanted red... and held out my hand... to dance the windows... senseless... and then... who said okay... we'll do this... fearlessly... one foot first... from sleep Tuesday, August 05, 2003 my fame lay on the inexpensive
end-table... bobbling in the fan's slight disruption... and in the next novel... i'll imagine my way into a quarrel with an inch of toothpaste ... well that's just ridiculous... why would anyone... in common restaurants waiters dream of breakfast... here i'm testing the sausage... the obscene oranges... no one hovers... o you wrote Flinching Very Nicely... would you... i'm pretending to fly from branch to branch... i'm singing it was going
to be about lacking a sense of humor but it couldn't find the thing you use for prying feet into or out of shoes and decided to be prose for a few hours just to give the head a rest because it's easier to turn away from a good idea than to reweave it from a fistful of miserable ribbons you won for showing up when no one else cared enough and you might mention the flowers again but we've had plenty already yes they are pretty pretty and nice too so here you are not laughing but taking everything as serious and flatly at face value because the humor keeps a thumb too much on the scale and you have to be smart real smart to get it anyway i wasn't
looking far enough... past your hair there's a kid with a grin... a broken bottle... under our first impulse we've got a question somebody left... i wasn't thinking... gardens and roads... excitement in knowing... where the shovel went... at sundown hey down
by the river... got a far off dog... got a one man dream... a weather pigeon... down by the river... tip me over... pour it out... remember the smaller needle next time... down by the funny red... river... Monday, August 04, 2003 telling without a finger pointing...
has come full circle... now ideas break out every ten or twenty seconds... metaphors don't care for this thinking... i wanted you to dance quietly in your corner... but you've been talking all afternoon... fanning through casual pop culture hints... buy me this and that... open that other box... yes, i heard you crying in the bathroom but i was busy... making a pome with my fingers considered
a... stilling... the heart just here... tell me... the road says... south or easterly... for going inside... out of the rain... where your hand tells quietly... and someone has walked before... far and far... even farther... for red shelter what i didn't
know was pulling me into big wind... remember to close the windows tonight... a line thinks harder than a breath believes... winding a question out into the uncertain sky like a big fat kite... all of us... all of us... and your cheeks puffed up... we saw hundreds
by the water... and sent our religion home... we meant it... no more sacrifice because the pipes went bad... those lies... and looking at the sun... it was a quarter or a nickel and we remembered how good it felt to slow the sax... when you read our little book of love red-wing...
in a big stone... i wish i had a fort... and afraid... i'd make you pay for it... not cut too close... all my facts been told... a reasonable... i mean if i whistled you'd sing... mercy justice... peace... until our clouds got tough... the old boy's yellow sunrise eyes... made me... Sunday, August 03, 2003 a dark area... on my plate... what
i ate once took me desperately... black meat... sadness and worry... no really... it was a steak no metaphor... my narrative shivers... i ate it... to interfere with a storm... i set my credulity out in a soft puddle... eating turns me... rusting... unsure... now... toward a charcoal truth... Saturday, August 02, 2003 i'm alarmed...
a man alert... a loon... whose funny voice... mocks us... in all seriousness... we couldn't take time anywhere... mewling and puking... our hands were full... now suddenly we pray deliver us from wild black birds... and the ticking in our tongues spelling
catches us... pouring... throwing out this morning's blue beans... whose fertile soil will catch it... without trying hard enough... what kind of wasp... wants to sting but thinks this petal... this sepal... this path to sweet pollen is sufficient... off the clock... untucked back to finish your phrase currently  |
