Thursday, April 08, 2004
who does laundry or knows the lists these days...

who isn't ashamed... of the smokey night we said

i remember the cycle... i like the sweet sums

counted forward into caring... we worked us out

brittled and oud-weary toward a nervy compassion


only defense... a formula parched in the sky

like a... blue burro stole my normal shoes...

ate them even... like this... typing comes

with its own reasons... a small paper bag... leaking


marvelous junctions these red birds...

a clutter of gnomes... a miracle with brakes...

well the day comes over... forgets

to say... here i am now versify me... rain down

a thousand avant-garde alphabets... a whimsy

for the dark spots... i wouldn't expect... too much


Wednesday, April 07, 2004
his leader... impractical instructions from

his self-esteem... our attention reduced to

his poetry... conditional lamentations in

his nerve... exceptional subversions of

his room... uncertain sanitation of

his wardrobe... suspicious origins of

his past... our puzzling adherence to

his bidding... lost in the clouds over


Tuesday, April 06, 2004
some walls are made of dictionaries...

lots of bad ideas... a stand-up cardboard

vision of you and me... leaning... out

like spiders... comic wonders... blind...

some walls let you run right through


i'm there talking a new circus or a subway tunnel groaning

i'm here freaks and televised bankers oh a crew isn't a team

i'm a version of our lost interview and its dog once more at ten

i'm then hope in a bunch i left at your door with the starry ink

i'm a canon spent for a genetic split and objectivist murders


o he's gone gone gone... o he's a gone... a real gone daddy


place... holder

place... holder

place... holder

place... holder


Monday, April 05, 2004
since this isn't europe

and night is replete

with delights... here's

the answer: collect

and magnify a minute

here and there... rain

from europe.. not here...

puddles through us

as if lovers cared

and there... since

this isn't europe and

cannot ever be... except

once in the backroom

of a failing bookstore

we studied reputation

and learned a secret:

that paper rises

to your hand so long

as you avoid europe

and love some small

animal... a cat for

example... enough...

in the evening along

an urgent waterway...

the canals of our

youth for instance...

their terrible bridges

useful in dreams but

caught in fact like

factories dying every

few weeks... of european

origin... and so...

useless in practice


while but not during and

just but not right now

a thin cord... like a blade

on a bright afternoon...

will slice a finger but

not before everything

goes pretty opaque

& i stay put like god


Sunday, April 04, 2004
piece of a bad violin... kind of sweet in the right mood

junior isn't coming back... anymore... ma's under the tree


lately since... i was thinking you might

fly off... into that impossible paper voice...

i'd laugh until you came back... air thick...

with dinner alone... uncomplicated... once


three cups of water... tipped toward

my passage from animal to mineral...

i stumble... but remember the address


i ask for the regular sky... a plate of fish...

and i usually get it... without the guitar...


Saturday, April 03, 2004
what is he typing... i wanted a less lonely pal...

he's known for one thing and then another... always

hits the space bar twice and checks a spot behind

his left ear... none of the books deserved him...

but the women found him rudimentary, piano-

driven
... an angel even... where i set him


i'm an easier fumbling... cradling good intentions

as in the first installment with everyone happy...

just before they start lathering the moon... wishing

away death's glamour puss... their disappointment

always spelled incorrectly while i stuttered my part


almond... the purest most useful... spontaneity

they used to call it lost time... but

that never fooled us... we riddled the whole

class with prayers... for the soul of a song-

writer... nutty conjunction of reds... blues


with this paper... my idea of literature

washes by hand old shirts and socks before

heading out to the movies or going online

for a breather from this life in the body...


my idea of literature hasn't suffered enough

to account for the confusion of a single heart

opening like the mall shops... tolerable sales

and comfortable shoes in a moony lovelight


entranced by my robin red idea of literature

boys and girls mark calendars for the new hop...

justice under a kiss... a president lost among

bleeding lips... whose pages counter all lies


back to finish your phrase currently

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