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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 back to finish your phrase currently  |