Friday, July 22, 2005
far from stopping the rectangular
icons give me paper angles softer
rosetta combs. for me panama hat
in a good light. i'm a saint i paints
far out in the surfy evening. gone
for toddling faiths. what i got gets
a squarely blue then a turquoise
gilt by the key players. or formally
tense and hardly breathing reds
with my child in the middle at last.
are my guts like this. a long grey pipe and tiny men
on purpose. cussing and digging for pistols. almost
forgotten treasure dumps. evacuations before the
black and white in color exhibit. are they. so cynical.
which words no body says. outside
i give up the space space space time
to make this for you. and you say.
rumpus it's time for the government
to deliver at once on all its filthy &
famishing promises. so you get to me
give me unwhiskered hunter that i be
here a new street of vegetarian lies
a goat the size of nashville dumpsters
a collicky piazza in the pinshade dusk
news of my zeros coming home today.
Thursday, July 21, 2005
rotten measure didn't you couldn't you clip it.
i wasn't in my heart the other day. scoundrel
in numbers as a beatless moon, unlearned as
a russian apologizes for his love-like sweets.
but not counted just flung down like any old
treasure. were you thinking to shakespeare or
hadn't you got that far. so far as delicacy yet.
about objects in my time they trip me.
long legs forging an analysis of english.
fundamentals. stick them eccentrickly up.
the city moves in royal modernity. excuse it.
wardogs and milkstates. a bowler slurping.
or making a mistake's new little brother.
who in a tranquil park. needing a new little brother.
collapses into jazz. of his life his great love.
makes a swooping new sense. present good humor.
Wednesday, July 20, 2005
people who cannot pay. learning
to pay in sounds so strange they
need earplugs. trying to sculpt a
wealthy frontier out of language
the way mice nest sunwards for
months then jump up reading an
urgency in the sky as squeaking.
another day they'll learn to pay.
hired for patrol. he must do. alone. going on to
the next hmminbird the next bargning flowr spt.
with signs of animal life in his wake walking on
to paint it black over foxs badgrs rabbts & deer.
blackning a summer gone mystery. a whole house
Tuesday, July 19, 2005
exhorted and finally described as an archer in advance.
I just can't sit down w/ a computer & write poems.
i just can't evolve in my next film. ordered. as cultural history evaporates around me.
to be more fascinating in manic gardens. to seek god in neuroscience.
i just can't type it. this new joy despite two dead frogs. murdered. and all gone to seed.
i still get the amusing illustrations. michel de montaigne coloring book. arthur rimbaud comix. featuring aspirin the unruly cog.
at arc's end a pointed plume a quill pen. standing for quality & class & all vanished. historical.
Monday, July 18, 2005
these are neither memories nor perceptions.
they look like broken bottles. fine. that's it.
as in this plainspoken midwest many parking
lots in both urban and rural contexts contain
broken bottles either as a central matter or
lodged as swept off to the weedy borders
near the ruined pay phone the cracked side-
walk desert as one may describe it not pretty
unhappy as these are both memories and per-
ceptions but where is the idea which way as
taking us enhanced and odd back to our only
room with renewed chaos emergency or map
where it turns into breath or type or prayer
in the songs of twelve brothers every line is a first line.
they want more from their enigmatic fingers. their mother
tells tales they're handsome they're predatory they sing.
punched out in metaphysical units.
call for the tree we met when we were walking.
send me a new poem without lava.
don't walk the rim but hold fast to the core.
still honking stamps. the new letter.
i don't expect you to understand me anymore.
resists the straightening effects of.
sensation. the effects of.
any old military dance without hands.
my american honey beats. as stung by.
here as my heart buzz. you.
Sunday, July 17, 2005
naked lines as nineteenth century carpets.
force is the title of a nice book for boys.
one of a drawer full of spotless linen.
prefaced with a very welcome biography.
tempting to the eye and gratifying the fancy.
not that they were unacquainted with brilliant color.
luxurious people could have an entire new suit every day.
one can hardly find a grotesque shape.
the book i bought as distinct from
the book i read and slipped into clouds
the book unaccountable at a crime scene
the book icing down the horrors of race
the book stuffed like a suspect holiday fowl
the book assigned and reconnected
the book to the prosecution
the book to the actual question we posed
the book cannot violate laws we violate
the book once and then again
the book entirely predictable only once
the book as an invalid measure of force
the book excluding all previous members
the book slanting and chanting
the book the the book there the book
in the abstract i turned off all three colors.
and the immoral language of ghosts.
just a golden child on a paper lap. gone
to church to steep to make to stream.
modern in all my branches now. a course.
Saturday, July 16, 2005
small saints. i picked you for my pocket.
and you came quietly as candles. i get
to nudge your brains & you tell me all
your cold secrets. so what the hell do
we do now. tell me. what the hell now.
all six saints moved piecemeal
through the wounded diary. taking turns
at shrugging off their corporeal
miasma. it was an icy encouragment to go
numbly. so they did. boldly.
and it paid off in the end. their still
fine laciness beat back a
heaving hoplessness none of us wanted or
back to finish your phrase currently