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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 back to finish your phrase currently  |
