Friday, August 15, 2003
now the spongiform translations... howl in over

sultry lines... now the owling breaks a limb... now

we got some gore-bent trilling... all for a morning

dove... stumped under my wax... my gaze

had a trick you guessed... and i gave it up...

turned in all my learning... just for you


acres under consideration... pleasing treasons

inside our streamlined auto-limo... show me

your calouses... all your hard places... i'll

show you mine... spirit-crossed spots...

a fallow tremor... unseeded... shakey

in a red moonlight... drugstore... vocals

thrumming... adequate inclinations...

every one... just for us... a sky


a little fog... changes everything... verging

on hysteria... we counted all our songs...

and found a number bounding out... into

morning's white stone... posing crows

almost tumbling... i said... this had to happen

before any of us would understand
...

that's just what i said...


Thursday, August 14, 2003
i wasn't talking enough... to them... to anyone...

my airways were clogged... my mouth obstructed

by playful lips... whose... fingers tied gay ribbons

under the chin... if you see me... nod... i'm

leaning closer to the screen... yellow red blue...

a day torched... in a friendly way... gasping


hasn't the cicada been laughing... we ask...

at us... probably not today... a string

of generous novels descend... from heaven...

each proves that earth needs... less

pathological detachment... more shaving...

more mirrors... fogged... by our humid

mystery... the part... called common...

the days we pass clinging to the bark


Wednesday, August 13, 2003
o god... not one of those... it's one of those...

they returned our vigor... with a canvas

shredded by the artist's unconscious more...

and require a wall... for staring down

inland gulls and exhuberant coaches...

let me buy you coffee... i'd like to buy you some...


smaller hoses for the fire... a century of smoking

our daydreams... has prepared us for a new resolve...

we'll take our football... and become it... too...

just before the first war of the last...

jedermann sein eigner... you know...

we were all very smart... and happy to smoke

up the gardens and libraries of fading continents...

you marched me up the tower... and down

into the throat of a mysterious demand...

parcel out your bosses... whistle now


Tuesday, August 12, 2003
Or, it makes it unavoidably clear that you aren't aware of what emotions come through in your work. Because they always do, every last rage-filled time.

from a spot... of ink... angry

or disappointed... with something

caught among teeth... o floss it...

string of blind sayers... you

had every right... we spotted

your feelings... and your leopard-skin...

long ago...


asserted this true thing... convinced

itself... called me a liar and beat me...

a useful wing... within an inch

of escape... i flew into walls

and called it hopping... amphibious

reversals... later... found me

egg-heavy... under sand


reaching the cat... and finally coffee cold

sentences... believe me... i had some

sign to raise over... our victory...

a smooth blanket... a black eye...

the cat will always... walk through...

this intention... to evening's arc


archangel barely stuttered while we replaced our eyes

with borrowed tail lights... yes and no... left and right...

and moved on out into a new day... here you see us

baking in the sun... here we are enchanted by twin sisters...

hand and foot... feudal virgins in a well-worn land... no risk

or misadventure will forestall our... certain reward


Monday, August 11, 2003
they told me not to like her... in the late recordings

where the bills come due... where the velveteen

is all nubbed out... worn through... i don't care...

my heart feels... my heart... grows fingers

when she sings...


please read this information... before you

take the medication... great caesar's ghost...

a loss... a loss of wanting... and a loss

of trying ever again... a whispery impatience...

a formal cough... who will you run to... what

will you say...

when your eyes unforgive your fingers...

and your brain mints fresh... useless coin...

i feel better in the shadows


Sunday, August 10, 2003
moths held string flowers... up to my window


it wasn't... the big thing... i mean... the big thing

wasn't some ego trip... seeing the old name in lights...

i was lost in my books... the ones i never understood

so well... and there was this paper... and a pencil...

then history... no... i mean... a person has to be

somebody... one way or another... or just kill yourself...

that's what i say... anyway...

mornings... i'm at my best





understand... this new species wants no operation...

in a small room... sucking up the air of mystery...

interpret blank faces as experiments just beginning...

model yawning at appropriate times...

all of this wishes... we had better senses...

one for knowing when to start or stop...

one for showing where to worship


Saturday, August 09, 2003
the poets have fun together... bleeding together

over sharp new lines... thinking quick tenderness...

looking at every thing clearly... and dancing it away

from the cash bar... take me to school with you...

take me to school... wear out my eyes... shine

like an elephant crying big poems

all over the street... right up to my door

(thanks, korie)


"How then are we to help knowing what we know? How are we to help knowing, for instance, that some poets are pilgrims, and that their poems are not just objets d'art, but records, reports, road signs, or trail markers?" Wendell Berry

even these... impatient... origami ghosts...

you noticed today and... like... unexpected shining...

or plastic... fallen... from a kid's notice... into yours...


not knowing... exactly... but safely... trying

the life that shed... these scales... to play


a hard time coming to grips...

with the less than wonderful

story of coming and going...

doing what you do... is enough

without the presumption...

just do it... just rue it... just

chew it... just glue it... juice

knew it... jutes blew it... jews

threw it... jug spew it...

blast through it...


no thank you... if i wasn't saying... i'd be

swatting you off... metallic gnat... of my dreams...

the morning starts like rough cloth... making

waste on the lawn of literature... quaintly

heroically urgently me... behind the rose bush

looking at this surprise... white paper... pricked

by the great poets' fingers... coming up red again


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