Friday, August 05, 2005
are these not what. not how for now.

they will become or they won't. it's a

walk around. plainly put farther. more

a license to suit that new one. were

these what the name keeps. except

the day in the district. these fallen in

pairs. these regular disappointments.

a studio with a lease and a synopsis.

quenched for example by a doorbell.

hard to think of an answer when the

nurse asks what it was. you danced

like a whole world for awhile. ask me

another green sweetness. i'll have

more answers than facts. turned by

evening into a tequila worm weren't

you. there. when just one bell might

have cast you out to a better hand.

Thursday, August 04, 2005
hard to tell one's greatest black & white

story. converging on the narrow bound of

her listening then turning. the kites you

see were lighting up that morning he had

promised and failed. so typically obscure

in the lamplight. hard to tell the rumors

like udders. or fresh picked corn. gone so

near the pastoral there's no turning back.

unless you want turning back. she is always

listening and marking yes no. even with her

eyes or the tilt of her head. toward light.

or while he turns himself inside out for an

active love life. love life you see. the key

for turning any story into any idea you get.

still difficult to say what happens that so

easy morning with transport shutting down &

masses huddling outside his door for a light

nudge to work. it ends as an early case of

plotting without cunning or any unkind notion.

one writes the story to the inevitable point.

bug on me.

there's a bug on me without

a bite of me.

or i knew it and i knew it

the bug on me goes

about liking me

goes for happiness.

not song enough to breathe. not shimmer to grovel.

not blank enough for light's good trance. not hook.

not muddled adventure. not book enough to serve.

not in your long stretch. not for parting mystic.

out of iron for the doing for now. as cotton will do you. think

i'm the target in a world. where nobody's shooting thoughtful

but pouting over the edges. still i get to bleed from the finger-

strings making. mistakes for free. they land in my right foot's.

my number six and seven best fantasies. one for talking over

you about their sudden assaults. the rapid irruption of seems

to be. just making words go just making them go on unlikely as

takes us away from this central concern. as if abe's

got a crease where he seems to be evil. bought it

for ages. still bought. and still smells like museum

pig. we whittled for wishing into a tiny true censor.

he got our half-comical rhubarb furiously booked up.

he blind the stout the strange the straggling waif.

he tease a red length out like a tongue to fleece.

as we were saying. trembling out a natural history.

Wednesday, August 03, 2005
finder in ashes. in horizons gone white.

a design runs through warlike figurines.

they had blue fingers and godlike grime.

dance the way the center goes. of fire.

Tuesday, August 02, 2005
so the only describes an absorption. my factor

trembling in what they call a huge universe. in

arabia these nettles are priceless. so the only

takes one and then another. i've got small ones

in finicky lace talking about something out in

the actual world. where games go on factual as

sweat then bring some light in here for dreaming.

Sunday, July 31, 2005
that to have fallen

makes me precious

and aloof as an open window

i was being serious

when you

broke in broke wind broke

my concentration

made of spun sugar

i'm fingers

of domestic ectoplasm

just a

fallen spookiness

calling all god to come

tell the talk

show it wholly



Saturday, July 30, 2005
time to reason what happened to my godlike hands

when the powers receded when arcs of light came

blistering in. i was sitting in the oranges when you

meant me back to my scalawag chambers and took

me as romeo back to the book. my fugitive mythos

cornered for once all over in dull cotton. here dims

as you going away dims the day's apology. no me.

no you. no fire in the toothy sky. no book. no fruit.

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