Friday, January 23, 2004
nothing new orders a regime of infinite tapping

here and there... a sight curling back on itself

like a semi-circular pond... shivering in spring

knowing... our purposes-at-large swept up

against the rude escarpment of... more


i tried to be a funnier guy... but these things...

these words kept coming... sounding deeper

depths... like... i don't know what... you know

like i don't know what i know... and that's funny


next to a red tie... these surprises get bolder

you made me stand... so i stood... singing

that tiny scrap from donizetti... fishing

in finer drains all over town...


tune's reason has to grope... a very shadow...

on other lips... sending back what you said...

changed... because you sang it... over...

when i get there you better be... ready


Thursday, January 22, 2004
or zones in which we finally collect... rest in being

tumbled over... what we said and held... like fruit

for the season... how we thought about walking

away... to another... and took steps... going on


megaphone voice in a close space... hurry down the hall...

to us... sing to us from the megaphone... maestro...

it only hurt for a little while... and then the sky opened

like a can of pop... the sky opened like a punched-up mouth


this could be a small shack... on the edge of a less small city...

it smells like pee for the usual reasons... but it's too dark

to describe... once a useful place... some day it will be gone...

all our metaphors leak... a pathos... looking out to the road


forty-five across...

cut into narrow strips... seven letters...

starts with s... third letter u...

in accord... i mean... i agree with...

every blank space... it becomes me...

i'm not flying but hoping... turning into...


Wednesday, January 21, 2004
this line has been a private code... fortune's goat...

standing up for a certain bovine frenzy... contrasting

marvelous barnyards with footsore storefront visions...

add three... take away everything... shift to where

four used to be... but where now stands... a bush


my income tells everyone to come home... come home

we have plenty of rice now... plenty of paper... some ink

and an idea... on the ceiling crawling toward the window...

come home and drink some beer... our fields bubble

under the weight of my numbers... my numbers explode

in the night... red stars sing out... hurry... come home


what turns into... the hated thing... once was liquid

or something afloat in the green... or crossing

the bridge to next and next... a delight... once

unbroken... colored like near distance in summer...

a rough young voice... demanding its moment


Tuesday, January 20, 2004



argued with lulu... said her yeses need new eyes... said

anybody can rhumba... but who can discourage joe...

who can fish in the bean can... who's got feathers...

lulu laughed and cussed my books... said... she could


a lake flying... this transcendant edition convinces us

to try... in silver versions... in dun frozen sights... an

electrical posture... i've got my finger on your pulse...

it's racing... and the lake is flying... put this picture down...

go out now... you'll never find another... a flying lake


Monday, January 19, 2004
or a gang comes rushing down... ready to believe in tapered shirts...

but hey we haven't worn them for thirty or forty years now...

our edges have gone... domestic... we read the front page now

and whistle at the times... how they've fallen into flimsy closets...

how they've stranded us... colorless... consumptive... athletic


any day's ordinary... in the usual shoes...

goes on... and goes lightly... and goes...

damn all who won't see it... so...


rootbound... or just a blanket around what i wanted...

too truly... be a critic... let me listen at your door...

the bugs are trembling in the walls... the bugs decide

when the sun comes up on our... verbs... our delirium...

your horticultural figure seeps... to the shallow dish


Sunday, January 18, 2004
some orchestra gets in the way... to insist on this... feeling...

not a boy in a band... or a train crossing... but... a permeable

hedge... i suppose that's why... all the sentimental cowboys

turn... just here... still... straining out... the melodious gravel


now you can't say you'll never say... if the last word

dreams creamy fat payoffs... this is a thin zone...

i think it smiles back when the click comes... it grins

and goes on saying... in a northerly way... okay


any mouthful of italian breath sustains breakfast...

we had a still face over steam... an edge of polenta

scraping out the vermin... any day compact as this

means trouble... a thread of paste strung skyward

spittle spires... the prayer goes up to yearning light


Saturday, January 17, 2004
telling raggedy flat lies... all over the blessed country...

i'm a welder busting joints... a cashier in the shade...

i'm a rubber tombstone cricket... brown ashes... and ice


come swim this river back to me... o justice... come

bind my orchard with your vacancies... mark me fallen

with the cattle... drop me for your... mercy... burning


whose blue

horn can honk us

from a daze...

or whose blue

glance marks

one bright thing

for prayer...

whose one god

finds anyone

suffering blue

finally says...

here's the passage

i meant

for you


any geometry confirms solitude... one line or many... a whiteness

a roundness... that yellow line... translated... amounts to art

hollering spherical peace over all these nervous figures... yours

and theirs... leaning vaguely... in our town down any street


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