Friday, December 02, 2005
was the real hurtling past was it undressing.

when were we going to give our lives away.

what didn't matter what was at last alone.

what excuse could have ripened a whole continent.

why the dogma sniffing around anyone's butt.






so joliet joliet anchors and encores a bunch

of money. give me a bunch of money

and i'll go far away
no justice in jumping

roses. so joliet goes as an anchor a stuffed

coroner said. beautiful in drawn out settlings

our hearsay christmas joke. so far it says.

this is what you lost. it was in your backyard.



how saying comes on. what was i thinking what

were the reasons or how it guesses to fill spots

open or nervously. look. what kind of talking will

we get when everybody's watching. electricity.

but if the light's changing and we're putting our

body there. in between the light and. any notion

then. then. saying comes to something as. a gain



Thursday, December 01, 2005
no sooner had i found

a way to step away

from poetry

than it turned me

into words

again

my nicotine

caffeine sweet

heroin

sugar grip

and stood me

out on skates

and stood me

up a jointed

flame

a valve



this is just

to say

i will not

be reading in

manhattan or san

francisco or

anywhere under

sun or stars

today in my

blue jacket

and tie or

at 3:30 or

with coffee.


and that's good.

quiet and

useful.



Wednesday, November 30, 2005
as often something comes wrapped. takes off

and becomes a stage for a new kind of wrappage.

where the song would rather. be the statue.

would rather be. the radio. unwrapped in snow.

cute in tiny pieces but incomprehensible as this.

they flee from what they might have flown to.

it was old love all around the edges. typical of



some go ugly right from the start.

just ugly. just. i mean full of them.

as hearses in flames full of uglies.

some gone so soon we're blinked on

blinked off. a terrific commotion of

souring desire. we'd set them off.



in

ferns

yes

ferns

far

out

in

ferns



utter


stop



miss.

all.

targets.



Tuesday, November 29, 2005
i wished the poem into its puzzle. meant it from the north.

thought it looked good in straw. black as hard seeming.



far. a signal of this orbit i'm just one edge.

heard me calling from the branch and bolted

one crazy person more or less well-begun as

the next hot lesson. scrambled as extra. what

are you doing with your life. where did you

finally put it when the big night sent you

to words as to one dry person who understood.



Monday, November 28, 2005
my gauge. o assassinate the chicken's pyjama suit

and stretch me to mars in a business hug. o blank

urge to pee from jupiter's vague hum again. i sign

for all indiscretions. i pay my touching out to



well you are not

the hole in fact



with less than five minutes talking that

twice invisible aren't we learning that

every song buries it's sister song that

the long way in never takes off or that

once in a picture we'll take our own time



Sunday, November 27, 2005
to thin lively pictures

under a bright flatness

we'll note a better

class of inkers bought

and

restored in arsonlight

cautious and politic

flat for fairness to

understand it's

time

to buy our time to buy

graciously their light

represents our chance

to purchase one or two

scenes

about the walls here

roughly balanced as

catchphrase to tongue

limits every mind to

say

just one thing and

just what is thought

to be one's own new

thought not fully

brought

but here and here

we're quickly just

locks to our delight

idiot signs

go on



what trouble watches days and nights.

which one you donate depends on your mice.

what buttress might have forgiven its beautiful urges.

which took us up for pleasure.

which in some countries consists of encircling each theft.

what were agreements were such extreme indifferences.



Saturday, November 26, 2005
this is a poem about a woman who loses

her temper now and then. she owns neither

a dog nor a cat. but the poet suspects she

might have some fish. maybe one or two birds.

because there's that small smell they have.

in this poem the windows begin to frost up.

then the woman decides it is dinner time.

she cooks for herself because she has

no other person. you see. to cook for.


this is a poem with one blue flower

in the corner. a generally dim room.

but catches some light from a source

off the left edge of the page. in a

white cup. there's the blue flower.


this is a poem about a very angry boy.

he is doing something foul and thinking

he should continue to do it for quite

a while. that will show them and as we

see. they are in the kitchen. very

upset over something in the wallpaper.


this is a poem centered on the page

because it is a collision-resistant

poem. the poet has taken some care.



well he's out there in the language stalking praise.


thinking this best sweetheart a beneficial scrape.


i was wound up in light and set on the curb.


enough space and enough marriage all drawn down.


ones are for winterberries as lost compositions go on.


if in the looking you mount it.



unthreatening and placid without the pointing

we're lost as in an acre of god. unturning as

one stick under fog. it was an allusion dummy

now get to work. perilously camouflaged a red

we get for imperial furnishing before all the

paleness and stillness. a few years for study

and marching a thin gray hostility. blowing a

leg or a skull to mist. we were taught to buy

the perfect one. no bruises no chips or flaws

just brevities like nurses who come to flames



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