Friday, November 19, 2004
all hands at rest
become a mirage for
all trees in a line
making phrases so

a mirage becomes of
small things unspoken
making phrases so
all the counting stops

small unspoken things
standing around in song
all the counting stops
believing in its face

standing around in song
fingers pretend to know
finding in the face
all they ever wanted

fingers pretend to know
why mirrors go so gray
believing in the faces
of branches or wind

why mirrors go so gray
turns anyone to books
of branches or wind
read backwards in glass

turns anyone to books
for some small peace
read backwards in glass
all fires finally lit

for some small peace
all trees in a line
all fires finally lit
all hands at rest


Thursday, November 18, 2004
how much less funny. i'm paying you for it. and laughing too.

bloody as the pentagon. there. you've got it. go. a good shoe

for kicking. let's laugh home sideways. never cracked a smile.

and stands hands in pockets doing. something ridiculously.

or was it perched and feathered breathing what the body did.


caught me traipsing into toxic domesticity. a ladder of faults

reasons down to a single insult. never bend the pages back.

meant me. in green varnish. cans of my bugs beat yrs. salty

if you cancel. sweet in all fumes. as in morning plastic. wraps.


cardinals in five. not counting the reds.

anywhere we look there's a bluesy horn

my day's heroic. theocracy. filters god

light through the average untucked fog

of. a repetition made of making. tongues.


Wednesday, November 17, 2004
marley's gut. from there a fashionable delivery.

a plan for this semi-circular oration. give it me.

i'm a moustache short of a face for now. then

i'll eat more and justify it. as moral potential.

isn't it beautiful language failing down tonight.


in yr pictures. where. are we by the water.

on the farm making food. in the sky. glad

to be some stranger monkey. are we open

as a lightbulb. took us by surprise. still

purring. for instance. and hungry. hurry.


Tuesday, November 16, 2004
the shape in (the greater part of the given machine) assorting

(here i am, ma) a welcome flood of memories and arguments

(i'm) converted into. thoroughly translated under pretenses.

both wholesome and (i'm not) disreputable. a singer. a lad

in foreign currencies. an estimation founded on foggy form.

a nut for the bolted lightning. incomplete fields. subsequent

tremors. (i'm coming over) inclined to bleed in the open air.


after the. any year of the. excessive mother.

important under the broken moon. the mosquito.

imps. not of things. but from courses. ill-bred.

swampy as we are, you and the well-bred reader

of the beloved tilting. of the crosspiece. serial.

a lot of illusions and threats toward. the end.

lame. he who clouds the books for a salary.

and fields all tatoos. all kinds of l'ombre

our lightning bolt. our stretch. our popularity.

(made most by machine)


important things. imps. about yr mama

under mosquito moons. farther swampy

courses we took. you and i dear reader.

needled on shore like so much cross-

hatching. illusions and threats. we made

ourselves clouds for the month. books

and fields of all sorts. pricked a tatoo

in shadow. our creases tents. lightning.


Monday, November 15, 2004
as an improvement upon the way.

we looked in youth. a crevice. a crock.

a golden flow in yr syntax. approaching

a picture of me with a box in my hands. showing.


my approval comes. flaming arrow through cornsilk.

how many inches make for economy in these rows.

an ell. or a punk fathom. let me call you immigrant.

understood. while the tenor grumbles. yr suspect.


if not for political involvement. on this scale. reading

for instance. madame bovary's aspiration desperation.

how much do you dislike the president. do you dislike

the president. enough to change your life. your wife

your underwear daily. heralding a new world ordered

from any one. of these catalogues. enough to start

making sense in all big suits. deep in the garden dirt.

becomes us. without lingering on the screen. becomes

truly one for. coming and going. for buying day light.


Sunday, November 14, 2004
soon. my edit before the clock. without a plow

i'm just a boy. erasing the grave you sent me.

just now. any edition takes time. from heroes

strapped to plows. like books without readers

we are suddenly reassured and safe. but i'm

a trenchant devil. my editor has taken. overt

casualties. laid out in a row. it's not my blood.


ever the teuton. a brash geometer.

angling up even yearning. here's

the matter. geese dumber than

fingers. a duck. mad mornings.

virtue comes in fine blue paper. i

think. trembling slow politics. or

morning wobbled yellowy. nerves.


Saturday, November 13, 2004
my smarts in green shadows. in heroic. fat. plantations.

he wouldn't write back. of course. because. of the odor.

of smarts rotting in black puddles. having served a day.


could i know my difference. o it was your fist.

you ripped it. i understood the passage. better.

once it had been ripped. and your fist. reminded

me of one i loved. pages and pages now. burning.


as many seem to begin mid-thought. as many as

appear to begin. but. here's the wind and there's

the tree. honey locust once. but now anybody's

guess turned to an opening. for a walk-through.

as arguments for the new which come requested.

a life's middle passed under. appreciated for its

shade in summer. cursed mid-flight but tame as

most beginnings. with nowhere to go in noisey

times. shabby as i've become. sound in going.


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