Friday, April 29, 2005
on sorrow to go rudely... my condition takes one...

as the dirty principle messing with me... and you

go to the electric clock... tell it to her suddenly &

re-use it. now and then. as graphic laundry goo.

being difficult for the sake of every room's house.

the work requests. what you couldn't know &

should. see. unknowing will complicate you.

a machine guarantees abundance. no one will

matter as much. nothing precious to fondle

or go delirious over. not a one. not many but.

a string of crumbling in between. when you can.

unsteady as meat. go saying. what a fine

day for a tinkle. what an excellent pooh.

for flushing the world back into shape. a

natural round still. pointed and worn like

a disaster. a goblet. a sober hobo joke.

Thursday, April 28, 2005
i take my end from none of this. line

me out into fields of shaming. blinking torn

and believing anything that comes ruling.

here's a flintlock trick it off. here's

for finding you home and restless so.

good advice in a corrupt moment. caught me off

in a puzzle. i'm either book or scenic and symbolic.

where's the poem in a shout. some argue intent.

if they're so young they're theoretical history. i'm

one or the other and slipping towards a closing.

i cornered a rock. vertical handed. up on it.

for we're playing as astronomers in both skies.

never turn the edges down hard as a chimera.

we'll make do. for the length of an open education.

what stars without double entendre call lucky.

thank them. and face down to softer rounds.

Wednesday, April 27, 2005
if you'd asked me to have an idea i'd have flopped

into a wounded seed. and you'd have as subject

matter the losses. of a seasonal fault. mine going

roughly through frame after frame of good taste

but ruined by that heartlessness. at school again

where i got good grades for sitting still. & seeming.

about finding in saying the corners the next reason.

about finding what brain buried bottles bruised. as

about the young reproduced in dagger biographies.

about my own edgy cult my affectionate bells my

about time to experiment with advertising objects.

about mass cutoffs. the shoe. the markets denied.

about me and you and a dog named peter old man.

about coming in from praise and vitriolic geometry.

about backing off from the moviestar news as such.

as daydreaming flays me but not you. you go out

full-fleshed for the paper. i'm a little nervous near

dogs. i'm partial. frank and solid but less than i'm

used to. in my throttled syntax i stand for change.

counting's for strong horses. my bills undone.

my heroic impossible condition. one and one.

mystery in baseball mystery. in acceptables.

how many will you take. all of them all of them.

Tuesday, April 26, 2005
you there can tell from profile i'm a crude likeness

of myself in gilt trousers. burgundy cap. bells of soft

leather. i winnowed my own and chortled long enough

to know myself. nearly intimate with outer limits but

pulled back in time to fat self-classification. an urge

i fill with spoons and chairs. here the profile trembles.

in the next scene i'm leaving on the window i'm gone.

i parked i forgot where i parked i parked

over there on the grass. adjusted the eagles and went

off forgetting where the angles collide. a

gust for the clouded avian committee dinner. as going

treated automobiles as centers around pork.

i forgot what i ate where i ate it i forgot and i parked

if in my comic zeros line up for a dance i won't give them

then why not pretend you have a headache or need a porsche.

if in my codex germans lisp and wander in triplets off to golden halls

then why not guess we're happy and well-stocked at home

why not shuffle and huddle. why not screaming and staring.

why not the green dress the yellow braid the boiling print why not

in a pot of portulaca the sun took us for students.

tried. to roust a beginning. the sun forced hopes.

like a far jet we're lining up. reading all the whites

grays and indeterminates as non-binary delusions.

but what had been red and yellow in a pot goes on &

Monday, April 25, 2005
then description. marked me as a start before

here and now. you get to drink your ice tea &

i begin with eyes because. something in them

seems a crisis. a dog. a mulish slow disbelief.

so i'm starting over your name. hovering on.

rustling to crack the wall. and begging for it.

the gods understand but don't really care. we

get to talk about anything. they let us. and

we factor influence. the equation ripens in a

double prophecy described by one as an egg

of petty crucifixions. to which we each report.

hard on the fleur this teaching. i'll fix you grandly.

plastic is a form of interaction among dreamers. i

will not release you. hard on the levitation this egg.

useless in a busy folk culture. but in anticipation.

less imagination. i'm moving thru your awful heavy moon.

Sunday, April 24, 2005
polka mama far off in the lethe. rearrangements all welcome.

polka in the bilge mama. fractured by the publisher. tepidly

attuned and framed in a delightful blowsy evening. yo soy

something or other in the sometime winds we get. i polka

mama in your blue orchid. what zither now stiffness still.

if i were a china the old snow. arbitrary cuts. you mock

my falling. if i were a tooth then for sweet random yes.

chew mine over the pretty painted plate. i'm heckling

the reaction. a rifle for a gift. a fencepost if i'm harming.

nothing let's us out or off. neither off nor out but you.

if i were a wake you'd see the dent and squirm away.

and mortar as a wall makes me. there. said

you've got a long while yet. time to look for

particles of yr day in every nook's curlicue.

i was cute then. i pushed a nun. i run over

what all the painters did. and called mine.

Saturday, April 23, 2005
out of what you know. or any of us. in the most

celebrated history of us. the only ones with the

talent or you know erudition to say. you are who

the book turns into. in the end that's each of a

long line of us. what you know can go sour or at

least stark in time. will in fact fall. here for

the credit owed to lyrical dawn. unlike a root.

kind of hazed over knowing you called but unable

to place myself. answering in a jingle letting a

page flop over even in a shut up room. a gravity

nobody wanted. and if nobody's reading well here

comes a silence strung up in time. stare down a

wall and come up with the next cool spark a hand

no. you are alone and capable of an opulence. or

a nap of uncertain value. to be read as an offer.

i will resume in sentences. meaning. if you seek it.

coming black as new dirt. old as it. i mean. a sentence

you can plant. inside the fenced garden. you get good

tulips or strawberries. i keep wanting to say wake up

to me sleeping. without sentences. a russian beats

us in a fresh new symphony with thick black notes. but

here i mean comes my sentence. scratch its old belly.

sustaining civilization itself. my isn't. going on.

as a flu. on the nervous terrain i got the next copy.

bent my iris over and made a big meal of popularity.

hurt myself on the verb but. an exceptional craft as

going out. for sailors sex and violence. but not us.

for his first ideogram. below the waterline. a vast pathos.

then the second. under the nineteenth century casual gown. a small color portrait.

the third. unflinchingly. above the sniper's grimace. tribal bravado in the speaking machine.

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