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



for a standard

moral punk looks like

a pretty good flower a bug

talky summer healthy

trying hard to



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 ...



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