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         

a lie ... even truly saying abstracted me

didn't say it or couldn't no matter

how much you asked or needed even to know ...

it was like not finding ever

the right metaphor or any ... being still



with simple words of first or second grade

and a blank musical syntax appended to

nothing ferocious enough a good hand

written in brown ink already old a monument

to deserve a chance...

o don't say what made it

so difficult an impatience a resolute indifference

to art or tying string around brown paper

even to wrap something nice virtuous

in circles and sent off in friendship completely

given these terms taken from the air believable breath

finally held far off in other hands




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


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