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.
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