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Friday, June 23, 2006 wind
at this quarter-inch man ... sparrows & wrens ... then his masonic buzzsaw ... a reichstag ... a white wall the leaves said ... a puff of dust these are the eternal verities complaints ... blew black into his eyes ... Wednesday, June 21, 2006 in
its reflections the city hands itself to itself & guesses hard about us in the shops the city raining likes each of the new records collisions aren't for windows but close enough to being nice designs in the city every line of walking the city takes for a walk as for sleeping there's ice in the city's eyes that is enough to make a new idea and a pair of glasses the city wants you happy at last and generous please turn into a mile of light city put everything in place in
retirement spelling island there's yr girl she put a whammy dawn up the day i'm not into that but yr ok Tuesday, June 20, 2006 all
of a sudden stops being a long light off stratford then a long fall through sweaters and a cough you can't shake never mind this isn't an actual history just a quiet raw affability i 'd be very interested in your approval above almost anything else truth were told correctly in conjunctions we were supposed to be self- starting because we understood our own time better than the others could. or trembling toward prose i should guess you might prefer a story about the bombing or the abandoned factories of parents and their parents whose grandchildren have been momentarily electrified and sent off to soft cells where mimes a giant wave smashing smashing the circumstances of their time into blue sense under old stones pass the bottles or what you have they're finally good enough translations back into the original busy languages you'll have to imagine some noise here like never mind i don't know the greatest war film maybe pinocchio. these
funny trenchant years oh it is both a former norm and a contradiction language as the cause of flat statement industrial footage in black and white as if publicly an icon of continuous musical denotation calls the dentist of the poet's vast wave of mackerel and music i can count t o o i always beginning and ending with Monday, June 19, 2006 o i know some of these are bad pomes but at least i can still see their badness (though flogging will not fix them) and with attention say some other things Sunday, June 18, 2006 my
flickering nuisance in these caves ... i'm a famous translator & yr my genuine protein ... elder ... captain of calcium floats ... would be distillation of hubbub ... i put my pronoun then my verb ... i step in a catholic gash ... seismic stables ... stony steeds ... these are my verges & my funny assumptions ... all about carpets & comic grammars ... not a wet not a light in a fallen ... but pages & planks of them ... Saturday, June 17, 2006 that
there are wings and that i haven't got them is troubling ... that there's some part of the world most of it even i'm not ... that my windows are very small even too small shouldn't matter ... that i'm the slug and there's the starkest crowing machinery ... that combines with light to snatch me to its own black belly ... that in this radio i'm the transistor not the tube that glows ... that's no slinger of song or sensitive narrative conventions ... that whisk away stony drops of doubt that there might be no end ... that coming for me will entail a black bird and an answer ... that i hadn't imagined how far i'd got along through delirium's wordy book ... that pulled me like wings from cloud to cloud i was romantic you see ... that which not even a carefully phrased death notice could do in ... that because a kid goes on asking one need not answer just because ... that everything has a reason but sleep is good too ... that sleeping i stood through all the drowning bugs and icey leaves ... that named me apart from themselves as one who might dissolve ... that sunset wasn't all so beautiful as that not having wings ... that shrill static frequency like glass is calling me names ... that i haven't got like reins i dropped back in the nineteenth century ... that i'm still watching in the tall grass whenever i see some ... that turbulence could be moral kindliness or physical generosity ... that these categories are boredom for no one's sake a laxative ... that any failure to book flight continues and contains a long journey ... that it's likely i never learned to grasp the quill properly ... that even these are the days we need to apprehend in musical terror ... that i'm occasionally the latter of two most likely outcomes ... back to finish your phrase currently  |