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Friday, March 18, 2005 by time nothing's made. and grows like a pinch to a word. ouch. some things practice a kind zen. renew the woody cortex and generously suffer heat. we make it hot enough. for the pot cooks itself. wisely open all night we get the words unsung 1) neurasthenia.
forged of paper. an elbow freak. 2) we missed every chance to blunder out. where 3) no one belonged. and sucked our fingers raw as 4) dizziness. swooped in. fragile bird-like youth. look 5) i'm writing while the kids violate the hallway. 6) tempered gong. shameless wolf. some career. if on a verse
of mayakovsky you find a fly. if it mangles the text with specks. if an inexcusable interruption. if a bullet stops. your reading begins to bleed. the fly the eyes you carefully set on each printed mark. if on a page of mistakes. my piano forte o if my piano forte bones could say. a prayer in the precious research. if it stutters so regularly. o the fly. in the center crease. or to close the book. on all pianos. partly. that i only
listen. you talk like a human made of blood. and convince me of clues. wondrous flora. bygone boston. reckless pursuit. but my ears utterly. infatuated. my humans striding over incorrect earth. say how young. how. chanting indigenous air. Thursday, March 17, 2005 he gives. an utter. an eye to the orchestra. while as these geese. the drunken god becomes nondescript. he came to inhabit. the o in the derelict AUTO. sign. he gives. the unearthly o addressed to mirrors. we in the sundown broadcast we in the witty cartoons applaud. advise. accept a Wednesday, March 16, 2005 there will be poetry analysis
on the state tests next month and they need to practice. there will be mouths and fingers. a bright light in the sky that is not the sun. there will be a vast longing over dry county. over lake county. and it will not be answered. there will be no fewer than a thousand phone calls for wadsworth's long fellow. there will be ebony forests and pencils. for every solstice. there will be calling and calling for no more my
secret stash. in full sun troubling hours in my own voice. that was my mirage. gone as a milk bottle but so full i'd bark it out. take this here. it's a breath of fingers. twilight. from my collection dusted as an archaeopteryx. a lens on the life of. oldish in its ways and wise. achilles
at poolside surrendering all arms. a good thing to tan. without the bloody stench. was this my dream or yours. a course in the poetry of abundance in which poets cannot be distinguished by kind but by shapely maneuvers. as around a brilliant device. as a landmine in now peaceful country. some will come right out and tell you what they mean. the rest will make huge faces at themselves in fogged up windows. flat wet surfaces. Tuesday, March 15, 2005 asking me. as if i said here's
the way. it goes open then spins back to close. my mouth my hope my o this is precious past all blending. asking me what he says where he goes. we're modern here. don't need no stinking antecedent. you swinging vines. you an aerialiste to kowtow. undulant comes in several new colors. but not where the livin' is so hard. down there. marching
somewhere with the stupid girl who doesn't wear tights. what is he going to do when the sleeping gnome wakes. when the hill rolls down in buckets of buckets. tomorrow is. a princess party. today i forgot the. angry oaf. his mandolin fingers. marching off to Monday, March 14, 2005 starry ways. a glum parking din.
and i'm drilling quarters into guilt. unworthy of the gazpacho. meditation on an egg. where are you. where's your reproducible village. i took all your courses and am running out of quarters. let me cancel your guitar. before the stars take it back. Sunday, March 13, 2005 for street cred he never knew anybody
and forgot the breakdown. he must have had. some bitter breakfasts launched him. some frozen touching happinesses. all grounds for poetry. then his terrible floundering in the laundry. then he wriggled out to smoke. all wrinkles tough as chartres cathedral noonday. alone in spirals made juicier by the arrows in his breasts. a good friend spied him learning and proclaiming esperanto. then in tears. he hadn't invented it himself. throwing it over. past the isle de sears. past america. then commissions hovered. a gray bauble smeared him when it fell. then he took one day out. the first step all the way to the last. called here looking for me. and found. squandered in old light. rested. me. Saturday, March 12, 2005 mine in politics stirs a filament
of concern. i'm writing to ask that you. and will be voting for and against it. juice of deciding is all over my keyboard. ugly sentences know what they cost. my hero naps under a broom tree. mine in politics assembles flaming identical authorities. my strings
and i were saving for jazz. i bent the corners for good luck. and if you see the victorian age say hello. but never comment while under house arrest. teaching becomes a perverse perseverence. while talking takes in views of other cities. i wasn't making it and wasn't singing but processing. a fool in the tunnel is worth a knight in the trailer. give me more corn syrup. more temporal banter. let's all pee in the raging sea of human emotion. back to finish your phrase currently  |