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.



saxophone barks.

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



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