CENTURION

Tom Snarsky

Intro

A centurion was a Roman army officer who commanded a group of men called a centuria, or “century.”

There is a famous story in the Christian gospels about a centurion from the fishing village of Capernaum. In the story, the centurion has a servant who is bedridden in the centurion’s house; the servant is paralyzed and in great pain. The centurion tells Jesus about his servant’s agony, and Jesus offers to come into the centurion’s house to heal the servant. The centurion replies to Jesus’s offer with what has come to be known as the Centurion’s Prayer, which reads (in the Douay-Rheims translation): “Lord, I am not worthy that thou shouldst enter under my roof: but only say the word, and my servant shall be healed.” After Jesus’s reply, which lauds the centurion’s extraordinary faith, the servant is returned to health.

Centurion takes as its starting point the extremes of power at work in this story. The images, words, and ideas that make up the poem are not audacious enough to flesh themselves out fully from within their confinement – rigid units of ten pseudo-paragraphs each. Neither are the sentences and fragments of the poem constructed into hierarchies, like the centurion’s domestic “roof” (which covers servitude) or the militaristic order of his profession. Rather, Centurion’s constituent parts coalesce in the loose faith of spokenness – the hope that even their incomplete, fractured music might somehow enact a healing.

Centurion is part cento, part collage, and part conversation. Many of the lines are stolen, borrowed, reordered, or rearranged from divers sources, living and dead. As a poem, it is neither conceptual nor alone. It has no aim and no end. It is merely an attempt (and here the borrowings begin with a phrase from Fanny Howe) “to see and to be” in the world through the inimitable apparatus of the long poem.

Tom Snarsky teaches mathematics at Malden High School in Malden, Massachusetts, USA. His poems have appeared or are forthcoming in Blackbox Manifold, Jerkpoet, Maudlin House, Eunoia Review, Third Point Press, and elsewhere. He tweets @TomSnarsky and posts work occasionally at http://quarrellary.wordpress.com. He lives in Braintree, Massachusetts.

May 26, 2019

The castle walls thinning. Every daydream a color for bread not to feed. I sit inside and copy everything from one scroll to another. Fibrous life, awaiting a command. I have dreamed of you holding a cold stethoscope / to my chest. All the apples falling, getting bruised. White sunbursts on clear plastic. So so much left to do. The last afternoon you felt truly free getting a parking ticket on its windshield. Waiting for our first snow day.

Something small but not futile. There’s a tiresomeness to it, to the always-producing. Where did I overhear that. I smell infinite white pixels on dirt. Sometimes high fashion works a complicated trick on money and nobody walks away happy. Love creeping along the ground. The castle walls thinning, thinning. What follows is a dumb way to forget. I could try typing some poems from memory, but that would probably violate copyright or something. A therapy dog with no person.

In these last few weeks (months?), I’ve been trying to translate a small selection of poems by Hannah van Binsbergen from their original Dutch, with the help of my fiancée’s maid of honor’s significant other who speaks Dutch. I don’t know what to say about the process at this point besides that I’m terrified of doing wrong by these poems. They have been love objects in my life since maybe 2015, before most of the translations available now had been done. I have no memory of how I discovered the work of Hannah van Binsbergen, but if you read her poem “Nu is ook nu” in whatever translation you can find (or make happen) I think you’ll understand. Any material that is part of one’s formative experience in something can elicit that oddly protective nostalgia, and it’s impossible to tell whether that feeling is helpful or bad for translation. Why has no one more capable than me translated Kwaad gesternte into English? Why are there so many other glaring problems with human society that haven’t been fixed yet? I was at a presentation today where the presenter thought that being able to read books would not be a skill necessary for success in the future. This is not to make fun of the presenter or to distance this from her sentiment, but it is a small attempt to decouple anything to do with books from anything to do with what is today being called “success”. Like “success” could survive being caught out in the rain with minimal protection, when we all know a book / could do no such thing.

Last night I was in a room full of people, a hotel room, and somehow there was solitude. I read poems and talked with a few people about living. One person is getting married on the same day as me. I thought about what it was to create time, to make durations with people, texts, things, objets d’art, whatever. The sort of woolen history we wrap around ourselves sometimes, when we’re cold. It wouldn’t be totally right to say this time is repetition, a kind of repeated seeing and hearing. There’s a little too much ritual in it for that. It’s more like a dining table pulled together from disparate surfaces and chairs, a plate of cannolis passed around. Or wine. It could really be anything.

Louise Glück: “with the final burning deleted.” Sometimes I think poetry does the most when it feels like all it’s doing for the poet is being the thing they are channeling energy into instead of that other thing in their life at which they do not want to look directly. A life in poetry, then, is a life never completely in anything else. There will always be the leaking and the trance. Turning time into liquid metal. Converting time into liquid metal. Converting time into liquid gold. Coveting time into liquid gold. Coveting time and liquid gold. Coveting time and finding gold.

What if it’s all fundamentally the same. What if it’s all fundamentally the same. What if it’s all fundamentally the same. What if it’s all fundamentally the same. What if it’s all fundamentally the same. What if it’s all fundamentally the same. What if it’s all fundamentally the same. What if it’s all fundamentally the same. What if it’s all fundamentally the same. What if it’s all fundamentally the same.

What if it’s all fundamentally the rain. What if it’s all fundamentally the rain. What if it’s all fundamentally the rain. What if it’s all fundamentally the rain. What if it’s all fundamentally the rain. What if it’s all fundamentally the rain. What if it’s all fundamentally the rain. What if it’s all fundamentally the rain. What if it’s all fundamentally the rain. What if it’s all fundamentally the rain.

I only edited the last chunk of this entry once. Most of it was typed while I was drunk on New Year’s watching Pride and Prejudice. What kind of time allows this. You walk out of one room and into a new future. You walk into another room and now all the pasts are kidding you. You walk into yet another room and now all the pasts are kissing you. You will wake up not because of noise, but because of movement. Something will have dislodged inside you and you will need to make a choice. There is no voluntarism, no transcendental will, no abstract I in this choice. But it is still a choice.

What if it is all fundamentally the rain. What if it is all fundamentally the rain. What if it is all fundamentally the rain. What if it is all fundamentally the rain. What if it is all fundamentally the rain. What if it is all fundamentally the rain. What if it is all fundamentally the rain. What if it is all fundamentally the rain. What if it is all fundamentally the rain. What if it is all fundamentally the rain.

The rain had stopped and then it was too cold / for rain. It felt like what was going to happen was the snow was going to fall and create little buildings, one of which your heart would try [/] to live in. Let’s take a narrow inventory. A sun, a faith wrecked in the harbor, cute animals gracing your phone screen, a long supercut of the year’s disasters. I’m drunk without feeling oppositional. I love you, all your bones. Remember me this way and not some other way, some way less made / of love. That would make me feel terrible. Try to see through the written word into the future, into the coming year. I hope my intention takes the shape of a mountain lake, all its ripples like hugs were meant for u

🔟 🔟 🔟 🔟 🔟 🔟 🔟 🔟 🔟 🔟

Robert Kelly: “We see what we call a little.” Susan Howe: “Poetry is a loud voice, that the night and the day bring a good logo logo.” Hannah Sullivan: “The nature of the body is really, like the bag is not worth.” Kaiser Giordano: “I think when people forget that the negative thoughts in the picture, this is the worst thing.” Red Pink: “Football is playing ball”. Chelsey Minnis: “I’ll tell you your hair … It’s a piece of food collecting food stuff when …” Jackson C. Frank: “No rules here [ /], lanese lanes [/] frustrated. “Wonder Woking.” The green story makes herbs.” Kate Kilalia: “The tree returns to the darkness.”

When I entered my car after the day’s work, I went back the same way that I had to get up early in the morning. It looks like if the employees of the Sun during the long days will not be able to see or lose all. I’m looking for a while because I find it difficult for me to start. C. Brin: “The desire for the ocean makes it look like a sand.” What time did the morning request? How to break free from sleep, sleep. Say two hundred and six balls. Orthopedic bone x103. Prepare for this.

I still do not understand it, but it’s seen in game and short hair. I did not come soon. She can help her read Anne-Marie Olbyash with this page and the fullness of the body’s full poetry. Play games Go to bed if I want to. Gambling vs … There are many musicians not in the future, of course. The “Light” of Saroyan is the difference between sound. I do not know, but the bag of Philip Glass worked in my head. After that, Sophia Gebidolina. There is nothing in the light.

Simple Machine Supplies. The bags are like blocks and ammunition. Happy happening in the family sushi family. “Not important”. Environmental Birds. The sound. Products. Stevens speaks French and English in a language. The poor in my old age. Ben Watson (I think) about stomach? Or] mass in the song of Brin later.

See AutoCorrect available, for “Slater” instead. Cristiano and film 90. Add tomatoes and peppers. Green Sculpture Note. When the region is located in the market is higher. There is a real accident. A wide range of visions and beauty. Wipe the sun and the nail. Elliott starts making wrong. Do not let them know you burrow again.

Robert Kelly: “We love a little whatever we give names.” Susan Howe: “The talent of poetry is splinters of sound, thrown at night and the sun to bring an invisible eagle Emblem in.” Hannah Sullivan: “True form is overlaid, like moss on broken tiles.” kat giordano: “i think when people forget art is stupid, they make bad art”. Sam Pink: “A butterfly wearing a football helmet.” Chelsey Minnis: “I will tell you what is poetry…It is a remote electronic claw picking up a stuffed bunny rabbit…” Jackson C. Frank: “Here there is no law [/] but the arcade’s penny claw [/] hanging empty”. Eve Luckring: “so greenly history puts forth thorns”. Kate Kilalea: “The trees walk backwards into the dark.”

I got into my car after a day of work and reentered the same train of thought I had left in the morning. It was as if the workday had been an extended interruption I would rather have ignored, or missed entirely. I’m looking for a quotation because it’s so much harder to start alone. J.H. Prynne: “the wish to enter [/] the sea itself leaves snow dark as sand.” How much dawn can refuse the body. How much the body can refuse dawn, stay asleep. Share so little air. Two hundred and six bones. Bone bone x103. Structured just so.

I didn’t figure it out yet, the visual versus the aural in minimal poetry. I’m not even close. Maybe reading Anne-Marie Albiach will help, her synthesis of the spatialization of the page and the bodily sense of sound in her poems. Saroyan vs. Lax is kind of how I’m thinking it. eyeye vs aabb… There’s a head song in the latter that’s not in the former, really. And Saroyan’s “lighght” as a visual lacuna of sound. I don’t know but Philip Glass’s first Etude is playing in my head. Then Sofia Gubaidulina. Something’s there that isn’t in the light.

The minimal techno of poetry. Poems like lumps in the hourglass. Resplendent joy at the familiar sushi place. «A heart unburdened.» An echo bird. Euphony like a voice. Produit. Stevens saying something about French and English as one language. A weakness in my former heart. Ben Watson (I think) saying something about the undigestible [sic? or no] lump in Prynne’s later poems.

Autocorrect fought hard there, for “Slater” instead of later. Christian in that poster for some ‘90s movie. Crank the tomato. Warrant sculpture green. When the bass look in the catalogue is higher than the treble. Warp wrench car crash sorry hammer stay. Filament sight filament strange and beautiful. Soft into the dates into the slashes. Eliot sick false start. Do not let them know you’re out of the country.

🔟 🔟 🔟 🔟 🔟 🔟 🔟 🔟 🔟 🔟

This is the last poem in the universe. Like some of its predecessors, it ends in a couplet.

May 19, 2019

Recently I read The Women Troubadours, compiled and translated and edited and introduced with incredible care by Magda Bogin. I thought for a minute I’d review it, or try to do something to articulate why I felt the book solved a problem of address I never knew was there. Instead of doing that I wrote a poem about Courtney Love — really just her brief stint in Anchorage, Alaska — and the poets in the anthology. I wonder why it didn’t seem right to write an essay about it. What is there about the form that scares me away. A poem is like an attempted spell that fizzles into something spell-adjacent. An essay is like a two-by-four punched through by a competent martial artist. I wish these similes sounded more value-neutral. Since that’s how they’re intended. Of course, one of our century’s greatest discursive crimes is intended value neutrality, woefully unrealized.

I move through dozens of commercialized spaces every day. I witness the feeling of this, like a huge lake that makes me sleepy. Tired more than sleepy, which sounds too pleasant & frivolous. Tired sounds like the hammer it is. Ben Mirov: “I walk through love with a mannequin’s arm.” The pink light furnishes the wall with something new. The arcs we cut through our complicated present must be some sight. Connecting nodes and moving on in the novel structuration. Like a long line of mourners. Like birds shirring their oval sky.

The textures of these animals can be difficult to remember. A diary entry is like a small wound in your mother’s heart. Why is it that sometimes honesty can feel like the clearest way to hurt someone. What does it mean that the world is like that, truthful and violent. Truth in the service of what. Love whistling in the alley. The truth is what happens on Main when all the streetlights go out. At the corner of Main and My Body there is a mailbox with removable bolts so you can steal all the love letters I’ve written to the future, read them, and tear them up, ensuring they’ll never arrive. At least not in a state such that anyone could read them. Not without tape and a whole lot of time.

Patternalia. The bright red forest hiding in a word. When the register machine runs out of space and the sprinklers go off, the whole apparatus glistening. I wish I knew the word for destroyed in several languages, not least my first. The language of crying in the street. A warm tongue. Difficult language spooling out from the center of time. Thunder in the library. A moon in a drawer next to the batteries. A skittering, mild secret.

I’m in traffic and totally afraid of other people’s anger. There’s a listening we do with some people but not others. This could be the foundation of injustice. The first Santa pub crawls have begun in the Boston bars. I think I have seen the entire spectrum of the slight difference in periodicity between my hazard lights and those of the person in front of me. The bright meadow its own kind of death wish. A bright, welcoming home for all the animals. Of terrible power. The whisper of the fir trees. The infernal quiet of two people in a room.

A few times ago, I read Daily Troubadours, translated, translated, edited and controlled by Magda Bogin. I need a second letter that can explain or explain what to focus on unnecessary issues. Not so, I wrote about Courtney Love – written in Anchorage, Alaska and Mndeni. I understand why it’s hard to read about it. What is my fear? One of the magazines has been left to the left. Two and a half hours over the years. I think you want to speak well. Here’s what you say. In fact, one of the worst mistakes in the third year is not working, you’re not happy.  I read everyday and bought it. I read everyday and bought it. I have his mind, like the big fish that make me tired. I have his mind, like the big fish that make me tired. Depression is more than the sun, good and unusual. Depression is more than the sun, good and unusual. Sound sound. Sound sound. Ben Mirov: “I’m wearing a suit suit” Manakin. Ben Mirov: “I’m wearing a suit suit” Manakin. New codes, and the last green spots show a chance before the new message. New codes, and the last green spots show a chance before the new message.
 Photos not blocked. Your body reduces your mother’s loss. Why can this be a real danger to people’s faith? This means that life is simple and beautiful. The truth is preview. Do not worry. The truth is a problem when the lights are turned off. Depending on the body and body, you can clean up other building materials to get all my future supplies, calculate and destroy, to ensure they are not collecting. At least the situation people can learn. There is no design for anything else.  Kindness. Forest forests are treated together. When a car passes through the well, everyone goes. I want to know the word “destruction” in many languages, including the original language. Street cry. Yes. It’s hard to say then. Remove school. I, in the lake and you are part of the reception. Very small cards.  I’m in the car and I’m scared. Listening to other audiences and listening to others. This is the source of truth. People start to meet Santa first in Boston. I think I see the difference between my problems and my guidelines. Her hair is dead. It’s really a place to eat. Awesome fighter grows with music. To protect two children from home. Reviewing poetry is like a wishbone: you’re supposed to crack it open, but part of you is scared of what will happen when you do, like the sudden movement and sharp fragments together might be enough to do some accidental harm.

🔟 🔟 🔟 🔟 🔟 🔟 🔟 🔟 🔟 🔟

The only rule is that the eggs can never all be in one basket. Because of all the puddles I saw a man coming toward me who looked like a ghost, floating. If they’re all together in one place then who’s to say you won’t drop them, what with everything you’re carrying. A white truck took a wide right and everyone’s okay. Even if your love has one hand on the basket and one hand over your lips, gently imploring you not to doom anything, the possibility always returns, swimming up and breaking through the surface, that you’ll somehow fuck up the delicate equilibrium you both have established with the basket and worse, you’ll take them down with you, your love and the eggs. Another white truck, this one pulled over with its hazards on. So you find ways not to think about where the eggs are, the intensity of the love that is keeping them safe sometimes frightening to you with its newness, the beauty of a feeling you don’t trust your life enough to let yourself get used to. No birds in the sky this morning. There’s a hope there, though, that at some point the love will scar your retina just so and you will no longer be afraid to peek inside the basket, your love at your side, to see which eggs are where — even if they are all together at the bottom of the basket, in little rows like a chorus. Amended count: one bird, not so much in the sky as against it, up in their small nest overlooking the graveyard.

“Before darkness comes, [/] I’ll love you like a bird [/] (a Clark’s nutcracker) [/] loves to remember [/] where she hid her seeds.” In thirteen minutes midnight will open us up to all of our reasons for staying asleep, passing through us like the music we left on before going to bed—Boards of Canada on this first night of winter, hearkening back. Sitting in an airport hearing four languages so far. The word nap in ASL is like a tiny poem. The thumb starts tucked under two fingers for n, like a person sleeping beneath a blanket. Then with a our thumb person has to get out from under the covers, like they’re sitting at the side of the bed. Lastly for p the thumb adjoins two fingers sticking out at right angles, like the thumb’s big post-nap stretch before resuming the duties of wakefulness. I’d love to think of every word this way. I’m sad that I usually don’t have the time to. And why, why does sleep keep returning in this, sleep and morning.

Somewhere there’s a melody that can teach me the difference between the pairing “necessity/sufficiency” and the pairing “necessity/contingency”. Where we are at the time will matter, and does, and always has. Can thought walk around the multiverse? Browse? Window shop? Or are we too in to really do that? Too tied to one world? There are things to be tied to. A whole erotics of tying. But when the dom/me has tied you up (or down), is your place in the ropes sufficient or contingent?

The twentieth century gave us plenty of ways to talk about the silence of god but how many ways did it give us to talk about the silence of being? Or maybe something less old-fashionedly metaphysical: the silence of the inner room, the lack of answers and sometimes even the lack of a question. I’m not sure if poetry asks questions. I’m very sure that, when life does, poetry cannot answer them. What’s the difference between community and tradition. Writing to and writing through seem fundamentally the same. Like the way it feels to be given food when you were still expecting you’d need to forage, maybe on your own. Because you had (have?) an impoverished idea of what “on your own” is. Even impoverished staring at you like a moral accusation, which it could be. You will write from weakness and the result will evince it, so don’t you get any ideas.

Susan Howe: “Poems and poets of the first rank remain mysterious.” Also Susan Howe: “Time’s dominion embraces each poem.” Lost in the citational forest, picking up mud and leaves. W. S. Graham: “Shut up. Shut up. There’s nobody here.” Dickinson herself: “I am older—tonight, Master—but the love is the same—so are the moon and the crescent.” A dead bat from wherever. Deer haunting the periphery. Sitting in the burden burden waiting on the sky.

Susan Howe, ibid.: “Creation was never possession.” Stretching like silver light over the lake. Always looking for the easiest way out. The sudden indictment of unwanted magazines. For a lot of years the winter fell short. Help me think of what the new brutalism / would look like. In My Emily Dickinson Susan Howe builds a beautiful assemblage of Emily and everything. Different I think from the Deleuze project of buggering everybody. Hard to tell when that’s subversive and when it’s not, when it’s less a corrective (ha) and more an act of assault. Such a difference.

Tomorrow we will meet people from the internet for an exchange of goods. We will be at a gas station and the goods will exchange hands. The money has already exchanged hands, figuratively speaking, via the internet. The goods will thus exchange hands in concordance with the implicit agreement made by way of the payment. The gas station will probably have coffee. How good or bad the coffee is at that gas station will be beside the point. It will be part of the necessary armory against midday tiredness, along with probably food. I will spend an unhealthy amount of time on Twitter tomorrow, as I have for the past several days. “Several” usually means a bit more than a handful but here it means approximately a mountain made of pipe cleaners. Or more accurately, the number of pipe cleaners in the mountain of pipe cleaners.

Tomorrow we will meet online users to bring goods. We will be in the air and the drugs will change. Money has changed, it speaks online. The program will sign up for full agreement. Coffee can be a place of work. Good coffee or bad food on the beach will be on the floor. This will be part of what causes the problems day, and nutrients. Today I spend more time on Twitter, as I did in the days of old. “More” usually means slightly, but here it means that this is a mountain firewall. Or, above all, fire extinguishers on the mountains.

Tomorrow we are online users at these things together. Others are in the air and medication to replace. Money changed, so offline after online. This program is designed for full approval. Coffee can be a project. The beach can be a good or bad food stores on the spot. It will be part of the day, what caused the problem and nutrients. Today, I have more time on Twitter, as I have in the old days. “Other” is usually a little bit, but that’s Mountain firewall. Or especially, the fire in the mountains.

Tomorrow online users will bring them together. Others remain in the air and must be replaced. Drama for the Internet has changed. This application is designed to be completely created. Coffee can be a project. The beach can be a good or bad meal in the country. The problem will be brought up on the agenda and will take on the problems. Today, as in recent days, I have more time on Twitter. The next, often small, but mountainous. Or fire especially in the mountains.

🔟 🔟 🔟 🔟 🔟 🔟 🔟 🔟 🔟 🔟

I only edited the last chunk of this entry once. Most of it was typed while I was drunk on New Year’s watching Pride and Prejudice. What kind of time allows this. You walk out of one room and into a new future. You walk into another room and now all the pasts are kidding you. You walk into yet another room and now all the pasts are kissing you. You will wake up not because of noise, but because of movement. Something will have dislodged inside you and you will need to make a choice. There is no voluntarism, no transcendental will, no abstract I in this choice. But it is still a choice.

∞

May 10, 2019

Sometimes you wrestle with old ideas. “Churning through universes of midnight rain”, etc. The lovers have changed but the things they say have not. Exactly what it takes to free oneself from the ursine spirit of desire. Exactly what it takes to know that freedom is stupid, partial, and relative. Sorry to forget the having happened. Sorry the wound looked so elegant in the dark. Léopold Sédar Senghor rejoicing in the music. Compulsory productivity is dead. Long live compulsory productivity.

What will love conclude? & how? Shaping a wound response to the contours of future snowbanks. I’ve loosed my hand toward a figuring-out of the trees. I’m trying on living today. It fits like a punishment fits the crime. If you ask Jesus about the deep gash in his shoulder he will shy away, say it’s nothing. The visions won’t come for years. My aesthetic is girls supporting girls. I sat and watched for hours as a flower finally opened.

The longer I look at you the surer I am that scarcity cannot be a model for this. Once again we are working only with holy trees. The landscape is beautiful, its particular horizon stretched out like a coastline waiting to be measured—a lifeline with a number that never changes because it wasn’t definite to begin with. When I ask you the difference between define and describe, do you promise you won’t laugh at me? Promise yr hand won’t slip from mine on this dark forest floor? When we try again, we will be something like animals. A similar movement takes place. The bright, aromatic depth from which I was rescued bears almost no resemblance to your love. The heat coils & coils around your ankles. I brought a million reasons with me, but I’ll only need one.

Bruno Latour is coming to Harvard next week. I’ve never read his books, but I remember Ryan didn’t like him, so maybe it’d be good to see him speak. If I go I promise I’ll tell you all about it. Sometimes I think about that time that Ariana Reines and François Laruelle were part of the same event in (I think) Michigan, and I wonder if I regret not going. (I think it’s very possible / to wonder if you feel a thing. It’s like wondering how you feel, just with a particular attractor in mind.) I don’t think I regret it, but I bet it would’ve been cool. Just thought again of A Spell to Ward Off the Darkness, what a trip that was. I’d like to live in a riff for hours. To just continue.

When you read Noelle Kocot’s poems you / Discover holes being filled that you / Didn’t even know were there, didn’t even know / Were holes. You realize you / Can fill a life with poems, even if it seems impossible sometimes / To fill a life with anything. You also realize that some of those poems are people, through & to whom you can write forever. You realize that loss and distance feel synonymous in the space of the lyric poem, that the aubade and the elegy are kind of the same. You can dwell on this, in this, & for this.

There’s a well-known myth that the first two cars ever made were crashed into each other. Although it isn’t true, think about what mythmaking means: someone thought of something so autonomously beautiful that falsity was not enough to make them let it go. And now nothing is made. The sparrow cuts through the sky while I’m here knowing nothing. Breathing as (at best) an entry point. Where’s the pizza. Can life prove an object for thought. Or will the cold help it escape. Feelings are done now. Sufficiency reigns.

Sufficiency in the rains. I look outside and see the sea and have absolutely no ideas. I am the self-appointed queen of walking of right now. Someone else will be the queen when this sentence is over. Less the vacant moria on fire. Panic drill if in the willow drench. Aftermath curbed on a warrant afternoon. Settle the wood to sleep, dreamy. All the ache a current of this flame. And us w/our wolves, walking to the back of the forest, assembling.

A late picture by Turner of (of?) elemental crossings. Numbering the plays, the neediness of the costumes. Try to ask questions that move you instead of being scared. The answers to those questions—given provisionally, muttered in the night—are where love resides. Or maybe love is the vehicle that carries the answer, like air or vocal cords or an unread text. Maybe love is the boat bobbing gently in the harbor. Or roughly in the storm. Maybe love is seeing the late picture by Turner and guessing it was painted sometime in the 20th century. Or the 21st. Maybe a fixed amount of time can only hold so many brilliances, so that much of what art has to do is wait.

I am sure that suffering can not do this. We also use other wood. Beautiful place, looks like lots of water like a river. When I asked the difference between explanation and explanation, promise me that you love me? Did Deepstone promise that darkness came through my mouth? When we try again, we look like animals. The same thing happens. The fruit I saw from the depths of the vine. Oil and oil medicines. I have a good eye, but I want it.

Borges tr. Kessler: “Happy is he who does not insist on being right, for no one is or everyone is.” & again: “There is no commandment that cannot be broken, including the ones I give and those the prophets spoke.” Borges tr. Reid: “The slow leaves now recall a solemn child [/] who dreams vague things he does not understand.” & again: “I want one to be spared oblivion— [/] One unexceptional rose from all the things [/] that once existed.” & again again: “But the ancient night is bottomless, like a jar [/] of brimming water.” & Borges, untranslated, one last time: “El tiempo está viviéndome. [/] Más silencioso que mi sombra, cruzo el tropel de su levantada codicia. [/] Mi nombre es alguien y cualquiera. [/] Paso con lentitud, como quien viene de tan lejos que no espera llegar.”

∞

April 2019

Chelsey Minnis: “I am the most merciless girl flautist in the orchestra…” White people overemphatically thanking. The bullet of this heft. This plateau of bullet. Wanton need recharging. Not a beautiful place to leave. When in the rotgut universe. What. What simple. What simple death.

First you play rock-paper-scissors with god. Then they make you pick a hand. Then it becomes clear from prevailing images that the hand you chose is the wrong one. Then you try to see if you can go back on your choice of hand. Not choose the other one—you recognize that would be too much to ask—but maybe just nullify this round altogether, start fresh. Your inquiry, like prayer, goes answered in a way that isn’t a straightforward yes or no. The way your inquiry is answered is more like a map drawn by a small child not trying to be representational. The small child drawing the map wants you to find all the things they have drawn on the map. It is patently obvious to them how the map leads you to these things. The problem is they’re not here now, so all you have is the map, with its many colors.

Eggs? I don’t remember. All set? Nothing hurts. What’s your future weigh? Climbing the walls of the silo. When in the dream of home, what do you say? You vibrate some colors. Are you keeping it hot or cool? I’m saying the same thing to every future architect, don’t worry—it’s not just you.

The opposite of toothpaste. Pride-and-ego down. Wanton fury met us here and now we move beyond. Cut a flame from the twilight. Why this constant impulse to begin with “cut”. Hot fruit. Resist meaning like a lantern someone dropped. Margin incident accident bully. Future thimble future thimble wanted wave. Only an ex-dress.

In Twin Peaks: the Return, the Experiment Model is some kind of mother. is here being a nasty trick. It is dangerous to think / of a book as an answer. It’s dangerous to think when it comes you’ll be safe. The bi pride flag flapping in the wind. Robert Creeley: “For love—I would [/] split open your head”. There’s a conversation or two happening over the airwaves. All the participants are wide awake. When it ends will you tell me [/] the resolution. That thing that everybody decided we would go with, whether it is right or not.

Chelsey Minnis: “I’m a girl without love and music.” White words are recognition. This is a problem. These blocks I want to know again. It’s not a good place. When the earth changes. What’s up? Simple. Death is easy. What you have is a map of many colors.

First, I will use a stone. Then choose your hand. Thus you will see it by creating the wrong picture you have chosen. Next, I’m trying to find out if you can go back to your choice. Please select who knows that rejection is important. But here we finish and we start again. Your question will be answered as a prayer in a way that is not something else. I do not want to say that your answer is drawn to the child like an image. The children have 4 cards and ask them to see all the people on the map. They do not know exactly what your card does.

I forgot. Are you ready? There is nothing painful. What is the future? Please go to the silo. What are you saying when you dream home? Do you mean color? Keep her warm or silent? I will say the same for all the future, but I do not have to worry.
The problem is, I’m not here now.

What is the cause? Faith is small. We are angry here and we are coming. Beef on Sun. What happens after this thought is “groomed”? Hot Fruit. The opponent ignored the opposition party. Accident. Good future in the future. Wear well!

Top 5: Return, pattern is attitude. This is an idea. There is a risk of emotion / text in response. It’s dangerous to think you’re safe when you come. People are at risk of signs of wind. Robert Creeley: “Love – I’ll Write To Me”. There are two or two stories about the air. All participants have advice. As it seems, you will tell me that decision. They are all who decide whether we should go or not, whether it is right or not…

∞

March 10, 2019

The smooth, panicky backdrop to an empty room. A long shot of one cloud slowly revealing the sun. Terror of the nomenclature but never of the deed. Parking lots already filling up with snow. Where did the looseness get left. The freedom to not overbear. The way carpentry got passed down. I don’t know what could possibly have happened. I’ll ask Thomas James when I get there. Johannes Göransson: “wish [/] you were here [/] with a gas mask [/] and carnations”.

When the bullet of overwhelming need reaches your location, you will already be gone. You push and you push and you continue. And it is pushing. You stare into retail space and lean hard on the second person. Split a W down the middle into two L’s. Anna Meister: “I ask to be good but don’t [/] know the taste.” Poetry has a crabapple in its mouth. Reading Kate Kilalea and waiting for the future. If we refinance we can probably afford a copy of Ariana Reines’s A Sand Book when it comes out. Probably.

The smooth, panicky backdrop to an empty tomb. I fell in love with this color. The void of architecture. Pouring honeymilk all over the documents. I miss when it didn’t count. Waking up to all the hens. Firewood bound loose & wet. I shattered my mouth on blue glass. If I say Alejandra Pizarnik enough times will I write poetry. Will I have said poetry.

The packed leaves under the steps in early fall. Letting sound stand in for only itself. Jorie Graham wrote a new poem on fire with univocity. What it’s like to run out of time to tell the world it’s safe. One hundred years of pallinodes only. The catfish not biting and the yellow yellow corn way under water. When the stirrup slips and you list heavy to one side. Neither of us can build the connections alone. The terrace won’t support the weight of them. It’ll hold you for a while though, a short nap.

Waking up doesn’t end for your whole life. Then, abruptly, it does. There are no other insights the size and scale of a breath. None I can think of. All my florid faults glittering like spilled salt. So anyway, we went back and forth. Out, damned thought. Curious birds in the grass. Tonight and then tomorrow. The texture of all these trees.

Linda Gregg: “We love a little, as the mice [/] huddle, as the goat leans against my hand.” Consider the broad canvas of wrecked art. Somewhere must serve as the starting place. Like my sick cat curled up in what would be my lap if I were sitting anywhere close [/] to upright, the light not reaching us as it fumbles through the curtains. I don’t know what governs this. Like, at all. Earlier I knelt down in front of two broken goblets to take a picture. As a ritual it wasn’t breathtaking or public, but I did it. I knelt anyway. And I took the picture.

The form is open and it levels. It brings things together to meet. However obliquely. It is a courier of something like sense, sometimes. Sometimes something unpolished. To write is a kind of laziness. A very stressful kind. To sing is to pray twice. To repeat is to repeat. Is two repeats.

Seriously, I will ask him when I get there. I hope I’ll also bring a copy of Les Unités perdues so I can ask around about all that’s been lost in the history of art. It has the most gorgeous cover, perfumed with vertical lines in a haphazard pattern like all the mistakes American poetry has yet to make. It’s so simple. Poetry in general, I guess, not just American poetry. It just feels likely to me that American poetry will make more mistakes of greater magnitude than its peer poetries. Is all. To write is a kind of craziness. A kind of kindling. Soaked to the point of total uselessness.

Resurrection will not end. After that, it almost worked out. No ideas about taste and health. No one wants. All my sins are like salt. So we returned. Outdoors, secret thoughts. Big birds are asleep. Night and later. Login of these products.

I would ask if I did it. I hope I donate Les Units so that I can apply for all the costs in history. It is beautiful, beautiful, and beautiful in character as no blind has ever seen. It’s easy. There are many things, I think, not to register in the United States. Because it has been mentioned that a poet has much to do with America. Everything. Writing is a microphone. Type of type. Stylish results.

∞

February 10, 2019

John Ashbery & Joe Brainard: “There is an island called today you can wish it away it is a blob of tear plopped simply awful on the grass. Wish away.” A direct object vs. not, the two modes of thought / weighing down the blade like dew. The sad poem of laundry. The quizzical poem of asking your friends what they want / to eat. Baking vicariously in the midsummer sun, except you’re in the shade and you can only see it / indirectly. The cars on the freeway interrupt your train of thought. Payback for railroad crossings. J’entre dans la salle de classe. Je regard autour de moi.

Eliza Griswold: “True intelligence is boundlessly generous.” From one star to another stricken star. Hold me back from the grandest error. Nine floors directly above. When in the cinnamon light we learned each other’s names. Boundlessly / generous. Call the unspectacular what it is. Cut memos out of cheesecloth and write them in water. When in the grand hall of appearance we learned each other’s biggest secret. Daffodils peeking out from underneath the snow.

Things, life, death etc, time and continuation of God’s wisdom. Perhaps because of interruption, most philosophers explain. It can be said that time, patience, change, distribution, harmonious things have time. Considering these goals, scientists and scientists sometimes tried to understand Anaximander (600-550 BC). It depicts “confusion” which is a deep secret of the era of Bergonia and the tradition of delijnism in modern history. In this explanation, Husserl and Heidegger do not display time at any time. The following is described in history and philosophy And Deleg. The most important part of the investigation is concern of Deleg and others. The result of DeRig will affect (Aristotle) and the soul (Kant, Bergson, Nietzsche). The whole world is trying to explore using the idea of Delegions.

In March, we announced a magnificent fireplace and a beautiful outdoor park. It has a library. Some people are free for a long time. Some authors are journalists. The program has been developed for many well-known people and teachers. However, the return to March is limited. He is a team with powerful and authors. Those who are not inside will care for the type of literature. In March, they applied for a school, a regular restaurant for $400 to $3,000 for a loan. Travel can not be taken.

There are methods different from those of people, subject, object, or material. We keep the awakening of the name. Season, in winter, in the summer, time has a perfect personality. This person is different from things and people’s things / story. It is a mistake that sexual transmission walking and respiration between molecules and particles, it affects. When the devil interprets God [/] Modern artworks and destructive events describe their value. Rain, hail, wind, respiration, or contaminated air and particle poisoning, [/] Good stuff for this sale. You should talk [/] Behavior is not only the place but also the volunteers themselves [/] Who is responsible, story. Among the diversity of civilization, the east [/] Appearance and culture rather than obedience or necessity: a for example, you do not need to mark it as a lot of floating lines in difficult person Charlotte Bronte, everything [/] Wind, things, people, face, love, words. Lorca “five nights”, [/] When love is gone and fascism is happening—5 consecutive nights!

According to Julia Kristeva, poetical language revolution (1974), poem is a place where we know our strength and violence to restore the tension between mother and mother. For Christ to describe the meaning of their culture, current principles and logos begin to try to make clear communication in many languages. In poetry, however, ignorance, misunderstandings and misunderstandings often influence the type of reports. This is not to incorporate the idea of good intellect, which connects the mind, our life, and the knowledge of the word. It allows you to become a friendly, flexible and unreliable friend of moral and cultural issues. Cristeba’s description of camels recognizes that language is the language “mysterious” as odd. I think the “Hitecker Ditch” is a heart secret. They change the value, shape, and substance. The Christmas book is home to the first “Hitecker”. Distance is a moral seed.

Do not say “culture” is not easy, in one year or something. Merriam-Webster provides an assessment of (such as biology, such as “Anti-Virus”). The problem is the location of “cultural” than the number. If something is, how much the price depends on the difference. Murder and Raymond Williams, in his opinion, “Service” writing “culture” is defined by our experience. The culture is so rich, as when we say “gathering” (1605, Francis Bacon wrote about “mental and emotional mental illness”). Culture and the way of “life” in the language of French culture, or culture. Many other traditions such as events, magazines, films, magazines, and movies are provided by consumers (or so forth). Three different approaches, so Williams writes, they argue. Whenever we use the word “morality” is a form of “cultural” healthcare that needs to be entered into the museum and “culture” for a good person is the “laws” that interfere with a subject.

My cathedral is my only partner. I think it’s because the plant grows as many people as I hit. So when I came out of my window and saw the tomato’s fruit I thought, “Hi, that’s fine!” Some of the things I want is a dad, it is important for all types of VIM choices. There is sugar, skin, large, small, colorful and visible. I would like to say that there are many different things and different as sections, not sweet and tomatoes. But here’s a problem with tomatoes. They are very young, but they have the secret you want to know to feel better. Now I say “the secret” because even when I was working with my dad, I went for two to two months to humor Permaculture and read everything I found in my hand on wood, many have tomatoes that do not feed me. They have such a big difference that I do not want them to be seen again!

John Ashbery and Brainard. Not two or more as a way to attack directly the risk of grass. “Now you think the tears and all the treatment I called in the island,” an additional page. Dress is the worst part of the story. Friends / food at the request of the detailed procedures. Tomorrow the independent daily diet, you can see the border and shadow. Free car for your feedback. Payment of lane lines in the classroom and look around. Look around. Look around.

Eliza grasvalda: “It’s been giving advice from the stars.” Another star. I have been a big mistake. Eight chapters. Cinnamon and a light, we read each name. Anonymous Call / nothing to them. Notes cheesecloth and cut apartment. We live in a mansion, and they learned a secret. Reducing clockwise. This was meant to achieve an epiphany about love and it has done so.

∞

January 10, 2019

Anne Blonstein: “I must begin my answer in somewhat negative mode.” Ben Mirov: “I would sit down and fill pages with sentences.” Creating a loose banquet of nodes and connecting them with the lightest wire, the thinnest thread. Finding a use for the word “logarithmic”. I’m hoping we work with each other to create the rhythms that will define the political future. Naïve as untrodden grass. The space around me seems emptier. More thin. One name misspelled and another name repeated. The great, polar inequity of water.

Of course we grant you liquidity for your convenience. Maladapted snow hitting asphalt. I’m writing this in summer but it’s winter comes to mind. Geoffrey G. O’Brien in Metropole: “I guess I sing.” For what is a poem without readers. Without love. Blanching at the silhouette, at how many silent letters it owns. At the possibility of remote control. Capable now more than ever of sharing our private droughts, our brush fires. The paper not yet peeling off the walls.

What with the all of it. Anyway. Love. When you’ve already internalized the metaphor. Darlings of our sleep make demons of our dreams. Write an epilogue with rainwater. Know that tomorrow is scarce and worry is pervasive. Then write a second epilogue. Now with ice. I’ll read them both.

Be with me, maybe, at this nexus of nows / & thens. Matter & memory serrating the future. There’s a daunting collection of shadows hanging off that building. Mirrors grow intenser once you know what lies behind them. When you step on the stone in the water, another stone pops up further out on the surface of the lake. When you go ahead one the previous one sinks back down. If you can’t swim then to continue becomes a tremendous exercise of faith. And what if the stones are on a timer. What if they sink back down before you’re ready. Before you’ve had a chance to gauge the jump.

“The thisness of this place is enough” ringing in my ears. “Thisness” autocorrecting to “thinness”. Overhearing conversations between people and their children. The conversations are of various timbres. At least one of them is wholesome beyond compare. The curl of discarded paper. I think we need to value silence enough to trust it. A visual silence for which we need not atone. Let the void swallow your intentions just long enough to see how it feels. Then—once you know—try to move forward from there.

We’re moving forward with the conglomerate. All over the place we see poems & don’t know why. Let explanation be the first draft and let the poem be final. My copy of Robert Frost’s Collected stares at us through the past. Thinking about “Directive” in this impossible time. Imagine the poem holding so little weight that the air would draw back of its own accord. Imagine knowing a lark that clean. Tapping into the substrate. Watching abominable things on the internet. The only guilt is shared guilt and the same is true of shame.

Certain questions I can’t ask you rattle around & around. It’s because I’m not brave enough, maybe, or because of some larger thing. In the throes of daily living it can be hard to tell which of these it is. Outside the throes of daily living there’s no room to ask. Wear the warmest clothes you have and walk out into the winter. I’m writing this in summer but ignore me. Telling your truth to the sky is still telling / your truth. When you find me under a fallen tree don’t be surprised. Tony Hoagland: “I was never sufficiently kind.” The only sufficiency we need.

What about all this. In any case. Love. When you are in the picture. Our morning prayers make our dreams and dreams come true. Fill the problem with the rain. Make sure that tomorrow is good if stress is everywhere. Repeat steps. Now it is cold. I’ll read all of them.

Follow me, probably in the new agreement-on. The story is to keep in mind the future. There is a list of hard wood. Working hard when you know what lies behind them. When walking on rock and water, other stones get out of the ocean. When you move, turn left. If you can not swim, you will continue to grow in faith. And what happens if the stone is in time. If they got you before you plan to? Before you have the opportunity to know what to do.

“The information about this place is complete” but I scream. This is a “tooth” to “reduce”. Listen to conversations with people and their kids. Communication has many trees. One of them is the best. Leaves between the text and the wolf. I think we want to believe in them. Let us stay silent. Remember that the intensity of your goals is to see how it works. Then, when trying to get there.

∞

December 10, 2017

Made with jeers and borrowed hearts, the relationships depicted below are all fictional. What will the Markov chain do to deserve this. I didn’t guess and I barely said goodbye. Two films that share a frame are arguing about religion and oversight. Who clawed this winter into disparate days. When I say “habits are abstract objects” I mean cars are whizzing by faster than you could mention. The novel penetrates the depths and takes core samples of the recording process. Sound burns everything into useless animal shapes. The color is an old trick. Watch out for when something else buries you in real.

Waitering in the deep ice. A blue slash through a white space that is off-white with truth. Noelle Kocot: “The crimped [/] Light slowly unravels.” The structure of a forest is at stake. Grander novelties are working on and within our darling scheme. O to wipe the forest clean of any evidence. The inner rock holds more than you think. Whom was he talking to, and why. When I wade with my unlit lamp toward the dark circle of total safety, I know perfectly well that I’m never going to get there. I know that perfectly well.

A cold front immersing the open house. The remote control in Funny Games. I lift this chalk up as high as I can and wonder about print. Seven or eight crucial misdeeds. There is a sequence that is concomitant with this one awhile, but eventually it diverges and the throat it weaves becomes a machine. Rocks as surface effects of other rocks. Different notes resound into the wound. You’re singing stairwells. For fans of experimental weather. It’s really much more about anxiety & presence than it is about possession.

The outer as ballast and the inner as slowly incrementing panic. Kill your local supermoon. When violence coos at you across centuries. A plinth of damaged habit in the wardrobe of the mind. Yes he will accept the call. Sappho, strumming. Lyric endangerment. If the fog will come then who will burst. A village of blades winding and winding through purple night. Garrisons cannot be built for this, a moment of total calm.

You picked a good & agile name for it. Groves. And when the minimal clean amphitheater works its riot knuckles into you, do hesitate to remember. It’s good for the flesh but bad for the architecture. A constant hutch. When that militancy whispers at your gut like Satanism. One of the powers is to project snow into ears. Killer purple smear forgetting. Like a window washer holding all the cards, face out, from the outside. Living is a category polluted by verbs.

Bent in half to ensure that the diaphragm gives out. Canadian Mist in the early afternoon. The wind of general art. Whenever I do die, consider this my last sentence. A portent of flab. I’m sitting in the contagious hospital with no one left to blame. This is a forklift & this is how forklifts work. Cutting the black plastic into essential shapes to burn & breathe. To brace a body against the undercurrent. “I said no—for right now I am doing the best I can.”

If the poet has an enemy, that enemy is purity. A whole ocean of middling text messages. Graffiti written casually in grease. In a smallish auditorium Alain Badiou argues that “postmodern” as a term is trivial at best and meaningless at worst. I have one father and that is all I can indexically claim. Registers on the shoreline. A perpetual and impossible translation project. The honey drips but somehow it does not move. I imagine an entire field dense with particular insects. He is here and now I have to go.

Elaine Scarry: “War, too, has a structure.” There’s a dumb determinism brought about by presence, by immediate proximity. I didn’t read any of this in the papers. O speckled animals, protect your territory. The moss grows cardboard and will take a while longer to fossilize. Would that universe events could calumniate a single author. This is a high-water mark for relativism which is sometimes called family. I am literally certain of the central square in Paul Klee’s Static Dynamic Gradation. Cerulean fades into the rest of the hyper-real without much fanfare. The ongoing martial metaphor seeks the result of seeking a predicate.

Fecundity is tired and afraid. There is a half-frozen odor alighting on the hearth. Volcano after volcano elaborates the same truth. You piece your body together slowly by focusing on one region at a time. The piano hits a sour note and then it is revealed it hasn’t. Indictments crawl all over the fetid earth. Rabid permission attains objecthood when needed. Time is leaking into a great sphere held miles above my head. We all await the tension of the serpentine. Pummeled by identity as if it were consent.

Who are the poems by. To not like apples. Hyperventilation as an ironic gesture of living. Metal that is okay with lying to you. A net rise in demand produces desire. Googling answers in the howling dark. An ambient space that agrees to host surfaces. Interfacing with the others before they’ve asked your name. The echoes twinned up through the floor. Someone inform the abstract machine that I have been stunned by the trees.

∞

November 10, 2017

An outright lyre. Through the shadows at four and into the spirit at ten. I’m trying to think of a language full of tools and no harm. A singularity chose nothing and wound up with us. Us meaning the bread on the floor and the hierarchies of foreign markets. State buffoonery is looking into the different societies and drafting a white paper. I’m hunched over the putrid well. Music was a joke she told herself that improved over time. The lamb was hiding in a benchmark. Ontology is special, yellow, and useless.

The poet as unambitious musician. Surreptitious queue. The shriveled apples sit in state together with the dissonance. Can you hear the tremors. It’s hard to imagine a real question at this temperature. The running wind is Elena Ferrante’s prose, is Arno Schmidt’s prose, is the fine-tipped science of universal history, or something. Where there is love there is a large bureaucratic system and a set of columns. Death is cheap in the word. Diverticulitis like lymph nodes from the plague. From one disease to another disease until the arteries quit.

It’s a quintessential magic of embodiment to hold things you cannot see. Consider this a potential difference with a spelling mistake. If you clone emotion and call down to it from the edge of a well, expect temerity in the response. Whole families of apples with no new untruths to exaggerate. A rope keeping the fencepost from falling into the other fenceposts. Do the people who are held back have arms. Poetics is surging and swarming in some key or other. Murderous cracks lost in the black of the plastic. A gentle aggregation of flies. Somewhere, being is sitting quietly with a puzzle box, trying its best to work it out.

From texture to texture I have to record the incoming sound in piles of ash. Once the contrapuntal naming scheme has been finalized, I’ll tie both ends together to see how they interact. There’s a criminal in your mother’s throat. This is basic ecclesiology. When the blue of the black meets the blue of the blind. Choosing to relive the night until you no longer choose to relive the night. Armor sensing that the wounds have just begun. Keep in mind that the semiotics of suffering will not be worked out in advance. Brian Calvin: “Personally, I’m not interested in narrative.” Nothing is a joke the way that freedom is.

We pick the colors in a flood of light. Flurries of windowpanes in the expectant snow. The directions add and add and add. The shadow as a comprehensive synthesis. Georg Trakl, tr. Stephen Tapscott: “Come fetch me, Death. I am perfected.” Watching a single ton of hot mulch bury itself over time. The first lyric to punish national doom sets with the sun. Ray McKenzie is currently tallowing the Great American novel. A waffle iron once tried to teach him how to speak.

Trying to reach a different planet using the same tactics. “The plan you need.” Hieronymus Bosch licked a window and look what happened. The whisper fields are full of the dirty tricks of lost men. When the music prose wants into night depth, surgically demand every letter. The moonshine in its face. Pendulous, the chord is a blood vessel skirted up the mountain. I am not the colon separating policy from the bodies beneath the State. I am not an election festival. Anaphora is one of the things I have written into the contract, sneakily, without language.

A haphazard pile of rifts. Called in the mortar bird neck humming close to the ooid sand. A fraction of later alphabets. Hopeless spheroidal smudges accumulate without end. I know that the distant vibrations breathe in your jaw like milk. You diverge from the object of my windowless dream. Desire as theological residue. That’s not my idea. I am just waiting and waiting to react. To react to the pink and the red.

The poet (or something) is creaturely (or something). Too much time inside the belly of the mind. When I display rancor, you are supposed to shout within a serial form. There may of course be a machine for that. I am violating the same temperature laws as you, so why is my echo so much louder? I have attained loft within the idle talk. There is miracle silver and there is dread. There is history. Teeth wordlessly buttoning an endless series of winter coats. “Come outside” is a relative debate, if you want one.

The principle is scenic in a borderline-obvious way. Anxiety marked in traces and stones, skins and waterlilies. The shivers, for the record, are not being counted by me. The amorous river should be taken for no more than a placeholder. Signs barring entry ought to line up at the door. The concert piano relaxes its strut. Exercises in composition sleep more than newborns. Drilling the horizon for hot air balloons. Memory finds a way to dampen as your relative age ceases to be precious. I am a hideous bird with a lot to lose in this dream.

An afterlife disco hovers between joke and proposition. A kind of idiot refusal bubbles forth. My axe-wired neck is beginning its inevitable deformations. The pornographic body can do anything. A synth in desert high noon. Money forming puddles constitutive of a cold democracy. The weather moved in and tricked my literate sons. There is an apology and a gun and the order is undetermined. Look at me, then look at the world. How the clouds are like stars with more blue.

∞

October 10, 2017

Saltwater listening. Chromium pecking order that collapses into aerosols when no one’s looking. Pascal’s Triangle mod 7. Reading Reverdy so late into the night that diminution blooms and you wake up in a ghost text. How long until the hand-limned message starts to glow. Depict every pause as devastating. The last time I checked, this title was an ornery moon. Feeling the kindle mulch. The painted-white door painting that hangs crooked on a brutal wall with yet another door. Open it.

Ancillarily yours. I feel a horrible feeling in the woods. Legitimacy is one disjunctive strand in a tectonic web of doing too much. I bark and bark and John Berryman comes to rescue me. The pendulum nosedives with newfound vigor. The variability in mountainsides and the ill will of a purple flower. Coloratura in the sea. If you die you can’t listen to music anymore. The somatization of depression in white women. Ben Mirov: “I turn around and hear a voice.”

The neon animal repressed by the silver lake. An ominous dripping effect held off, salted, lain in storage. Fathered bend on different trains. Indelible, inimitable, unspeakable harmony. Morose like a fin-de-siècle Porphyrian tree. Memphis, first as disaster, then as love and wind. Covariation is a color in the mind of the man counting on death to audit him sharply. The curio shop has so much and so little to offer someone in her position. The miracle wedding slogged off like the literal. A high-functioning lattice of stars has sent out its final command.

Dimitra Ioannou: “meta-democratic fake cement rocks”. Elder properties behind the brightness of fences. Inger Christensen, tr. Susanna Nied: “a murmuring wanting [/] from second to second [/] to circumvent death [/] and communicate presence”. The hill rises up and then is curiously flat. A debased ocean of black and green and an arc and a tangent line. Marrow is where the important things happen.
Crushed crystals and other echoes of the former jewel spinning in place. A minor geography squashed beneath a bright orange light. I cannot correct the stance of silver waves. The nausea screwed into the body.

Thinking like a plastic choreography for one. Silver silver manic silver and the chlorine and the jumper cable’s wet hide. Men walking in a tawny cloud of laughter. O synergist, write my name down. Bury the book in the seaside flesh of fifteen trees. Obstacles shaped like Nevada and overlap. Staring with the brightness of distance at your back, flooding the landscape ahead. Fungi singing caution to deep friends. Hissing burn black hold yellow circle dream. Moving over to create a state of space.

Something fierce about the Brandenburg Gate ought to be established. I’m marking the rivers the same color as the mountains, is that okay? You can hear my mouth change. Impossible boundary blue and white. Can we forfeit yes trees. The difference between snow and winter. The more we come alive the more a youthful glow denudes the Grail. This is a love song to microbiology. Do Not Step Out Of This Area.

Chasing history straight into the pillared sun. We call it a protocol and then leave the rest behind. It’s a word laugh with a calm story. The crease harvested at the start of a vestibule year. Purple boxes reigning in each ventricle. I cannot scream any louder than this. When reading the small print, remember the jacknife and the work we did. Stricter than forgiveness. I hope your moon will hurry on either way. Something about a hummingbird whisper.

It’s a sick color but it’s the only color going in this league. Work, not work, and the green rush at the foot of it all. When the scanner reads “bankrupt” that’s when you move. A yellow thing in someone’s crystal ball. The house was never at any point made of paper but who can trust in this. If I point and it’s air that might mean that empty is still alive. Look away before we get started. A dry mouth firmly shut. Reflection in the paint on the metal in the family. A mechanical life in the vocal range of a songbird.

There is an unlimited dance and we turn toward it now. It is the lame plate on which rests a layer of sand for tracing the impacts of flows. There is no indifferent body to track the changes, but there is a sharp pain immediately behind the eye, as well as identity. Be sure this continues after we die. At least up to a point. There is a half of a kiss in a raindrop mistake. Three towns over they’re telling you what they’ve heard. Nomenclature emerges and stabilizes in a cloak just offstage. A message is urging all drivers to please replace their boldest critique with a sharper animal. The presence has unquestionably intensified.

A bitter hear word from the mouth, which is a snare or something deathbound. The quintessential infinite is here and taking notes. Play the video back all the way, before those moments we just heard. Number and label the carotid in the sky. Cloud platelets. If I leave you with nothing else I’ll leave you with an ambiguous sound in the woods, or maybe a dream. Lift the leaf and fall into a public sleep. The trinity metastasis into psychoanalysis &c. Inexplicable ice and other solid-state matter. There’s a chance it will open on its own.

∞

September 10, 2017

Agreeing to open the skies. Combustible wilderness checking up on an old friend in the middle of a fabric myth. Theosophy of deletion and the comparative chyron. Chuckleheads will stare at you laughing with a memo nailed to their foreheads. The narrow-skulled ambition wreck. Empty of all the yellowing particles, paint flecks permanently dried and crumbled into a soft breeze that rang your bell every day. The perfect square of the corridor washing its face listlessly. Hard to tell what the commander’s read is today. Designer’s furnace as mortal coil. The fire is a picaresque mammogram made of words.

To sin without locomotion. A harrowed day passed in the shadow of a passing biplane, though only for a split second. The Minister of the Interior reading aloud from the children’s book he coauthored with a volcano. The list of works cited was extensive and gripping. A fellow heart contracting thousands of times a day like don’t or won’t or can’t. Mellifluous ringing in borrowed ears. I burned my only copy of The Sandpaper Manual without ever creating a backup (or two, since two is one and one is none). A relaxed mac-and-cheese atmosphere. Dewdrop means different things to different eukaryotes. Hibernation sounds fine.

The scurry list is collapsing into white people and an indomitable anxiety breathing into November. We say and say “bicameral” and say and say “the House”. No one big yellow sign quite covers it. Little patches of rock peek out from the brown and green. Cutting the stem cleanly and watching the water happen. Streetlight cannon. The glass windchime of imperfect consequence. When the bully alights upon a newer reason, power itself can be demonstrated to be insufficient. Metal on plastic on metal on skin. If the world is a nothing song, then so are you.

Participating in the fundamental heat alongside his tetrafecta of wounds. Trying to put you through to the red text. Hard-limbed bearer of the one soft warning. There’s a whisper in the cellular choreography that has been waiting for millennia to be translated. Less a matter of cosmology than a matter of propagandistic dispute. O my king and O my queen. My lexicographical order. In the universal war she discerns the beginning. The humble quest confirms the middle. The end concerns a collapse into identity.

The password worked in an amethyst range without telling anyone or coalescing into paper. A rivulet of not getting out much. Hidden in the ballet with the rest of the broken fingers, each one in its way giving a slant of hope to a set of promises. The axiomatic screaming off the rails in a subterranean setting that’s almost impossible to adequately light. Indisputably well-written articles of clothing. A box like a prism instead of a box like a cairn. Minimal pairs as a rocky step toward understanding. Universal explicability as a precondition for empiricism. Who else is being alive in this oncoming winter. How many rounds, how many short breaths, how many dogged sighs bricked by unreal fellowship.

A sudden change in the formerly perceptible. Julian Edelman with a ring around his throat. Desire is totally alien to this construct. How to own indeterminate distance and its several consequences. How to anaphorically enflesh. Quotation a rampant song sliced into ribbons of attention. I want to hold the air with lineation. Outside smells like outside is, selon n’importe qui. This is the usual tactic, running for infinitary hours over the disciplined expanse, finally snuggling up against the difficult parameters of boundary & tide. Where “this, in principle, cannot terminate” can never leave my lips.

Mary and perspective. Absolutely stupid to want this hard. Resolve it in nouns and their gentle mystery. Explication as supererogatory work. There is no decision in our database of eyes that could not have been made by a stochastic geological process, without my help. Winter is another word for living repetition. A smeared red clamped on the bough. Peripatetic wooden fear going through all the labels with unfeigned joy. A box of scientific non-experience. If I may advise you to consider the lifeguard, her line of sight, how long you’ll need.

Not everything that deserves is patched through. Red blood cell bed. The tired claw ripping into the sign that says we shouldn’t go further than this. Harryette Mullen might be able to fix it. I’m waiting for Derek Gromadzki’s poems like a liquid skull. The Earth’s mantle turns purple or blue according to the chain of command and the distribution of suits. Petitioning for a change in the way that bodies are blown apart by IUDs. A poor student with suicidal ideations getting kicked off campus. Like Disney World until not long ago. A moderate impression fizzles in the dark.

Counting to legend together. A farce tree that open leaves despise in secret & pen invectives against. ultra_doux.exe has stopped working. A money farm crisp and agèd like the sea some days. Ten lies and counting. Willfully misleading the ghosts of other fruits, playing at a broader commitment than the one to which we are betrothed. THE END IS EVERY STEP. Fluid massacre of the doubtless ambling footpath toward which every reunification to date has been trending. A ruckus of oleander. We’ll set off again but I won’t give you a date, a time, or a reason.

“thinking you stretched out and golden” (alli simone defeo). Spit on a leaf. Approaching reality with one hand out & open and the other still behind your back. I had forgotten about the peaceable agreements. The comfortable distance between someone else’s words. A basic struct. Not enough information to clear love out of the fairytale gutter. A shallow New Haven dream sequence with rules. The mouth transcendentally Not Feeling Good About Things. I’m in the lobby, let me know when you’re here.

∞

August 10, 2017

“[W]henever possible prefer the concrete Saxon word to its more abstract Latin doublet” or vomit in a running stream. Cult of disruption. Hideous unrepentant nihilism. Hiring the feud on a beautiful mountainside. The cracked spine filled with molten metal. A single blade of grass. The novel twist on an invitation: a becoming hewn from solid cedar by the word hollered over the chasm to a dear friend. A 20th-century sterling joke. Staccato cardiogram and flipping murderously through the reference work to understand what that means. The borders as transcendentally arguable.

Looking to become categorial, like the strings vibrating to define an edifice. A quixotic princess hidden in the sternum. Collecting the sentences according to a principle of mild homogeneity. White white unreusable plastic. Trying to recover from the dull static of nonrelation. I haven’t the correct spell for summoning Human Resources. Motion sickness from holding the canvas way too close to his face. There is international pressure to drink bleach. Sometimes vomit will save you. Same color, different flowers.

A mutual acid that winds the clock back painstakingly to the beginning of this brief trial. There’s a complicated plot that underlies most syndromes, as you know. The weariness is just part of the process. Scorched bullet aftershock. Awaiting a furred compulsion under the tongue. Scherezade Siobhan again: “This is a pause to wonder if you are the animal or the desert.” Wrinkling the void and failing to completely smooth the lines you made. Splitting headache of infinitives. The smell of gasoline and vinegar. Winter comfort of middle-sized objects.

Stenography intuitions are traipsing across the graveyard with me. I long for the moon a lot. This threat is parliamentary but the other verbs should not be ignored either. I know this is a pale out in light of what the angel investors told you. I’m sorry there’s not a cleaner character for that. Seeing Multiple Maniacs, probably alone. The lone arrow in a hedge fund universe. In the dawn of this ur-panic, please remember that George Washington was no category theorist and that the balance of power is never secure or even possible. A hint in dark pink. The flitting of sustained void music: a Bull of Heaven file streaming to a dancer improvising alone in the poor cornflour light of research.

The Elizabeth Bishops and Marianne Moores of the evening. Aphrodisiac prison light. The sparrow in a blue-flecked set of axioms. Wind hushing the nerve. When they tell you the baby’s dehydrated, what do you do then? Build a renegade castle of forks? It’s not the obvious thing, but please be sensible. It might be all we have left. Diners’ clubs of this late hour know that love is unromantic as it scuttles through the bone. Horse weather castigated away from the longitudes.

So. When the package contains alcohol we blush in amazement and defer to portents from other city-states we cannot read. That creation is legible at all. A streetlight buzzing with nouns renegotiating context via local light. The average length of a cultural revolution. Snow gap snow gap petroglyph infinity. Old TV on the evil road, twittering and twittering its resources away. A plan on the level of concrete judgment for tomorrow. The accelerated harsh contraction. A blue window sunning every inch of surrealism’s failings.

Change the river. You will not be expected to visualize any of this. You’re eating that mistake. I know what I would do to this home. Balaclavas breathing night air to pay a furious debt to William Gass. Antifoundationalism crashing into the dual barriers of love & trust. The double sea focused on the curio shop miles and miles inland. Remote access for all personnel worldwide. Stuart Krimko said/wrote something once (I think) about poetry as a cackle when one has been locked outside the gate. It’s more serious than you think.

Home improvement, where home is your face. A silver sphere suspended in midair. If I knew what the prawns were doing, I would’ve summoned the angel investors with a completely different ritual. We live and we learn in a silent maroon. The album of 78s contains both a mediocre Nozze di Figaro and an ominous code. Modular composition is the global key. It’s a sick ride of dispersion and hot flowers. Global conquest as an incompatible consequence of the metaphysics of the individual. The oil fields aflame. I did not do it, and neither did you, but it is done.

A white truck just barely discernible in the lens flare. The euphoric sensory trick of the adverb. The neurotically curved glass is sensing something. A withdrawal in the memory. A semiotician burning bridges. Some kind of heretofore unknown trust. Indelible presences will be making themselves known shortly. Soft mirror electrical panic. A hand dealt to a wasp in poor light. Skin picked apart hunting for a motive.

I go to ____________ and then it just ________. The tendency is toward crystal, away from gristle, and way up over the hedgerows. Innocence plays this game of purification as if there were any rules. There’s a precedent but it’s hidden in those complicated tunnels, the one we forgot the guidebook for. Every idea so far has been a greener idea on another continent. Here’s a startling number: mercy is 80% biodegradable. Drape an opaque cloth over the secret wheel and walk far enough away to avoid suspicion. A clever Judeo-Christian coverup. The white is the white of sand, not the white of talcum or chalk or negative eyeball space. When you look back on it, try to remember that you too were afraid.

∞

July 10, 2017

Your very bareness in the universe will be its own salvation. Hatchet daughters curing the peach in the heart. The impossibility of all art makes a mean omelette. Remember the deft orchestration in other hands. When metaphor is too late. The dirt backpedals. Scherezade Siobhan: “it is pure strength to cry without shame.” The endlessness of a differential green in the surgical instrument. A crystal ball of diamond skin. To return to your copy of the struggle.

The uneasy chuckle of limited knowledge. The diamond and the newt in pickled heaven. Trumpet sigh of the mantid gleaning a new somber sound from the higher-ups in the translucent elevator. Too tired to continue. I love you all. Tenuous glimmer soft. Ironic need. Inchoate raft. Shine on. Shine on.

A fizzled collar to meet their own goals. Sex in the patchwork text. What model of the individual is at issue here. Not remembering if the murmur survived or not. That brilliant god of sound. Hortense waiting patiently among the veneers while choice stares looking like an arrow. Dotted hyacinth. Consider yourself the upside-down cross of landmines. Heard the mad king barking again. The temporary as a personal favor, done by you unto me so that the sky will keep on furrowing.

Actual Charles est fabriqué de secrets. Incorrect. The bourgeois hammock swinging freely like a state. Sleeveless geometry. That was not a “fuck you” sniffle. Indifference only making sense in difference. A consistent universe, I think. The salmon-colored peach tea of the perpetual present. Michael Palmer: “Every three seconds someone over sixty-five [/] falls down in America.” A chewy enfilade, a barking rhizome, six rookie mistakes and enough planets to rob low-end banks uninterrupted for a year.

To be clear, state the verse death overhanging the declarative. Crystal kill in the minor repeated raft. Mark Rudman: “Bronk replaces memory with thinking.” It’s so infinitely men that get lost in the shrine. Why? Rectilinear tempo, sofic groove, color of finitude happening. Willows asunder in the buried cause of a paper matchbook. Did a computer have a chance? Vacant cloth and the mixing of inadvisable empires with the perennial doubt of a Pascal or a precisely-aged poem. Barrier to barriers everywhere.

THE REAL IS RIGHT THERE IN THE BEGINNING, which is to say it’s left, leftmost. A sensible indignance called and it’s bartering for your life. Suffering is malleable in a frozen heart year. Save me the pincer biology and sing it in layperson’s terms. Forgetting where “I” comes from after dropping the grapefruit, seeing the dent, hearing the magic. The oven in Sabbath mode next to the box of Ancient Grains. Reaching far beyond to the updraft, catching it and never releasing, holding fast to the idea of holding air. Forgotten textural paint. Relaying information via mulch and a battering ram. This is exactly what we needed to show.

Janky maleness sonata. The way “head, shoulders, knees, and toes” sounds to the anesthesiologist. Finding a topological criterion for the love that lingers after definition. The manganese toothache is electric but it won’t hold you back, unlike actuality. Disgraced swan song puberty. The din of flushing and the collapse of the construct of judgment, an echo ringing in the long marble hall. Six or seven emotions ago it all would’ve fit. Chariot of linearity taking the corner too hard. In and of itself (that is, without some ingenuity), a microwave isn’t particularly dangerous. It was lifted listwise beyond the top shelf into the non-commercial realm, where silence speaks.

The present is only a part of it. René Char, tr. Mark Hutchinson: “The eagle is infutured.” Staring along the white chalk line in the ground with a total nothing mind. Sex not helping. Going a little more subtle and indirect with the cobblestone. The recurring burning building nightmare. Hiding across evil, wafer-thin. To expurgate that same mind with a different procedure. Red river red river sordid significance. The rosewater tied tightly in a simple knot, one most genders her age / have memorized.

Embarrassing elemental thrill that matches the card’s verification code. The considered vindication of the homoerotic. Closed-form solutions glisten amiably. The dynamical system has a joke that it cannot wait to tell its friends. Perfect disregard for domain specificity. The memories of persons across lines of interaction, meeting, joining. The duplicitous part was never the forgetting, only the omission. We spill cedar like the gorgeous lambs and their up-to-date intelligence. Transnational groups excused this infusion, though we know not why. The push notification forces a prick of sweat from the pore.

Working toward failing a reverse Turing test. And later experienced complications. Home and renter’s insurance, too. The vibrant green mix of it isn’t being factored in. How to hang back enough to define oneself in the lover. To placate the abstract with a vociferous yellow. Ambiguous synth tone. What exactly is a band. Spreading the rich soil around by digging in, taking a picture, and uploading it to multiple social media platforms. To be unable to afford cynicism at this time.

∞

June 10, 2017

Waiting to see who dies after that. Whitewash the grief with a mechanism. Insurance of some hidden bodies in the solar system that we cannot detect. Rife with irony and the (Rosmarie Waldrop) “constant of desire”. Dynamiting is always going on / the record. I pretend to owe the bandage a question. There’s no rotated time for the crystal action of wishing for comprehensive dominance. If there’s a word there’s a word. Mic’d up playbill hoisting the wrong notes (there are no wrong notes) to the rafters. I’d like the declarative to be on some kind of schedule.

Fiber fiber gatepost storm. The very narcissism of it. Killjoy architecture monitoring the same god as the plants, the same ghost as the sirens, and the same miles as a stubborn forgetfulness. As gay as the day is long. The feature film just sitting there googling in the dark. Trying desperately to conjure a present. Meek summons toward learning the contours of the eye. A gesture of opposition ‘twixt hearing and sight. Heideggerian laser beams and a thousand little minutes in a silver-slick shopping mall borne out by the new theater people in a vapor haze. The burning bush is gonna leave us just as soon as it arrives.

The gentle divinity of smiling dogs. A purple overlay on green, both of them leaves, struggling to differentiate in the frame. A wild soda corn paper hat, please. Mumbled trochaic exercises. I cannot tell you whom the red river runs for, but of course you can guess and I doubt you’d be far off. These are selected, not under the cover of night but under a fierce blanket of roseate calm smothering the city. Altogether medieval in its noncommunication. The corporate delay is humming into the vine, behind the miserable veil, cortically overwrought. You’re going to sit here and explain all the plurals to me, but I haven’t brought a notebook. It’s an exploratory, hot-button kind of a thing.

To never have to choose the music. NEVER FORGETTING YOUR DEBT TO THE MUSIC. This mortal terrace’s backache a whimper lie to a savage dream. Hum a rest between the notes for every door they shut. His mouth you remember, and the distant hands. They suggest a fiscal hemorrhage that’s not a euphemism and you have to compare with all the drowned accounts to see what we can save. The Clash mentioned the nuclear era and I hadn’t agreed until basically now. Simply put, an alignment impossibility. I want very badly to go home now. It’s a thoracic sorrow that lasts for days and days.

Universalism stabs itself in the eye again. Uploading a minute after the blast: DWARF STAR SINGALONG DISRUPTED BY MAN CARRYING HEAVY HEART OUT TO SEA. Zigzag patterns in the sepia underground. Before the inflammatory diseases warrant attention, while they’re still far enough beneath the surface to not make sense. The brain cells and their interweaves waiting their turn. The tension between retelling the old story and rejecting its applicability to the current situation. Miscellaneous light on the white roses. The feud between blue vitamins and the alphanumeric winter spell of the firm retaliatory lemon. This is not surrealism, interjected the printed page. This is the whey of life.

Feeling like a gesture to cut. The quantum green remembered by a storage room’s demise. Sick cross corrugated in a pattern built from film and noise. “Obama nihilism.” Anohni: “When you were elected [/] The world cried for joy” like a sad lake overgrown with witch rot stumbling into the tunes of a blue theater. The marigold stole that. Encumbered, your branch extends over the negotiated border line where roaming parties (heavily armed) gather around their crackling radios. The shopkeep didn’t make much of it, but if you can guess the GDP to within $1bn he’ll tell your fortune. Uranium ducks and other surprising weapons. Abuse is not entertainment, which sounds so simple on its own until it rams up against the mountains of contrary praxis.

Eric Baus: “Expelling the whorls alert in the grass, breezes resequenced his skin.” Heaven and hell as just more of the same. Found sound parading through orange skies peppered with helicopters in an undisclosed sequence. Reflexivity wafting out of the kitchen. Hard to find positive words for the contrast he’s looking for. You don’t have to remember anything, you just have to reason a bit until the floor drops out from under you. What would the woodwork say to this? American Energy sniveling in a dirt hole telling you it’s doing its Wozzeck thing. I don’t know how to hold the beam of light. I don’t think figuration was ever a part of the scheme.

The ectypal horse grasses are calling the wind in the field “the longest sourdough moment these organisms have ever rightly seen, endquote”. Stance towards versus engagement with versus loving beside. There are wheels made of people in this dream, and they roll over other wheels. The egesta principle keeps the Internet running as long as nobody knows what it is. Plate glass underhoof. All are equal with respect to it. The attiguous bad man sallies up to the car and rests his elbow on the middle of your dream. Think carefully about what you’ll say to him but there’s no guarantee he’ll return the favor. It’s cruel, the chromosomal imbalance. Call it a suture, a decision, a difference, or a wave, whatever you like — thought won’t suffer any by your choice.

The vermilion death squad gave their notice about two weeks after the son had hatched. When in the light flurry of bruises did the pincer pass into new knowing? Henri Bergson: “There are several ways of picturing the mental condition of a person at a given moment.” Grapefruit in a jar. She knows who is playing the nightmare node in the evil bank of midnight. It’s not a depression mode, however akin to such wonder it may seem. I speak as a deep and unconditional admirer of the unlevel lines in your favorite parking lot. Citrus is paramount like the secret schemings of late day that we’ll only finally hear about when we’re older and they pull off the mask. The metal kept categorically apart from the dulcimer in her harried ear. Juniper berries were the ingredient you forgot, although I couldn’t bring myself to tell you as much.

Another tired dark with George Sand creeping in the vein. The entire history of art in persistent orange and feudal black. After The Psychoanalysis of Fire, Bachelard was read in Morocco by white people with great zeal. They’re different colors but in the bath of reddish light I find it almost impossible to tell them apart. A wide window into a child’s mind. The one frame is smudged beyond recognition, and the oil will be difficult to remove on our own. The light doesn’t blink so much as sag, with a resignation befitting a dead king. Maybe weave like a journey is not in the mixture. Greetings from beautiful Longview, New Zealand. You will find out in due time if that’s a planet or a fugue.

∞

May 10, 2017

Relational but not vectorial. The impolitesse of pointing, of Spicer. The dog whistle vibrating so profusely that it breaks apart. Don’t forget Thatcher was a chemist. That lovely Kafkan jackdaw. When you’ve communed with the nothing in your skull. Turn your flesh inside out and wait for the feeling to catch up, the orthography to disintegrate. Looking out over the girder, seeing most of the harrowed land and a skyline obscured by clouds. Geology might furtively have established some truths, de dicto, on the sly. Where exactly was this Lucifer bottled.

Hugging the fundamentalist a little too hard. “Almost heroically, to what would seem to be the limits achievable at the time.” Guidance and expertise will leave a void. The palm at the end of the grind. The skin inside the man. I think my problem is the word “virile”. Hot hands hot hands. Merkel was a chemist too. “A love of life which can say yes to death.” Manufacturers existing before all time, kicking the boxes in until they find the one with someone inside.

Because there’s all these wiring things, we’ll have to welcome the jury into a new year. To the backhand where the war is spent. Under other brittle hives than the ones the mirror saved. How’s your skull. Codependent like milk and blood. A battering a battering a thoroughfare a battering. The hard mattress of yesteryear. Nothing will ever fully be known. A Pez dispenser on the mountainside. It’s perfect.

“In the unremarked placid self-devouring [/] That makes up being alive” (Denise Riley) Mochizuki is still waiting on the others. The finite wreckage of the device, or devices. Unquestionable harvest moon. Sixty-four colored pencils at the tendriled ends of the binary tree. The lime has not yet come. Incurring the phenomenology of wandering werewolves with their sick grins and sweltering syndicalism. Her mortician is an avid reader. Journaling under the cover of night, writing this down in a willowy, unfrugal hand. The untranslatable rickshaw. Calumniating with the same vigorous force as the resplendant quetzal, navigating star-crossed geopolitical claims with astonishing ease.

I lie to the capitalist all day. I lie with the capitalist all day. Finding something about the capillaries that you’re willing to love. Filing all the genetic markers with your ghost secretary. If it was a flavorful habit I’d be dead already. Keeping up with the referentses. Before the tidal wave begins its usual flurrying, but after the tiny plastic dog presses start on the tape recorder. The range of the latex glove goes underappreciated in the total operetta of his heart. “Of” versus “as” versus “whole milk” versus “concubinage as it has been perpetuated throughout history”. May we all behead the blank martyrdom of real value.

Wasting the Galois year. Pertinent second wind of the fourth wall, gambling. Putting it all on red, forgetting about green altogether. The first emoji to walk on the moon. Fearing the sickness of unworthy obsession, as if that were a category or minor nebula. Denigration by whom. Penicillin was discovered in the same year that Janáček died. Something symmetric to clean the windows with. Solar to play and win. Every embankment sings with the possibility for creative contribution—don’t you?

The mechanisms of nostalgia remain the same but the world gets denser. Floundering in the minimal heap. When the flatline sings a whole Björk album from beginning to end that’s when you’ll know it has erupted, will erupt, and cannot but erupt forevermore. There was a stupid purple quality to his laugh. A fine mitre unsectioned out of fear (i.e. respect) for the avant-garde. The blister as performance art, the cause as waif, the laziness of conjunction as fizzled bread. The keyboard makes the whole experience different. She is trying to tell you about the sand using only little blocks of color. The tiny bipartite light almost invisible in the unmarked distance. Her work on the desert is only just now receiving the attention it has for so long deserved.

Tapestry owes the bankruptcies nothing besides a vivid color and maybe some syntax. Little tiny crystal-like harmonies she never wrote down. The toxic goal of a remnant-free ice age acted out for real. No they do not have that medium. Bitter ramifications in the near food. Listen to yourself listen to yourself listen to yourself light. Seriously counterposing the deletions. Ignore once, ignore twice, ignore three times the principal debt. An ongoing tantrum for the wicked suitors. If the ice blinds me, I can hardly say I’ve earned anything different.

Picture the aft (not the fore) and the grave (not the womb). There are definitely images that are more relevant at different times, and this isn’t one of them. Did you fill out the survey. That horrible distant shriek is something to explain. “Translate this page” and suddenly we’re at each other’s throats like Catholicism. Should there maybe be an innovative form. The pantoum degaussing the same brittle braille riddled with typos as we saw in the market. It was of course the alley, as Grace Zabriskie pointed out. I hope that’s her name. Joseph Donahue does it better in Red Flash on a Black Field.

We’re going to hurry it along in a different universe of minor stressors while the gallbladder gates hash it out in this one on a toll-free line. Things of the things of the past. Where the past is as much present as anything else, a stupid gift pun you ought to return for eternity. Falque might be onto something but I can’t tell if the body is iterated or if the mechanism is of another stripe entirely. The planet bones want me to walk that one back. Imagining Chris Kraus and Margarethe von Trotta in the same building together for who cares what reason. The PSR as a stock market index. The chemical hollow is designating the paragraphs that will need to be revised according to the dictates of the agreement. Send without looking. The horrid microphone snow will kick back through my brain plate into next week and both my children will be smiling, O Lord, they will be smiling.

∞

March 10, 2017

Sneaking in under the hammer of submission. Amanda Nadelberg: “Light is a commodity.” The wind as extreme unction. Back away slowly. Too many tiny crescents in my dark room. The dire need sometimes exists. All taped up like cheap wiring. Putting the doggerel to good use. Butchering names in the rain. Check your sucker punches at the door.

Leaves seen exclusively through dirty windows. Infinite ocean of coat hangers blazing like a thatched roof. Suspended like a melody in the passenger seat. Like all things, this should be a metaphor for love. Lunging at the secret admirer. The simulacra singing and stacking up like a renegade quartet riddled with typos. Use “like” enough to perform it. When the industrial aqueducts shrink down to almost nothing (old soap) that’s how you know you’ll need a social contract. How could Roy G. Biv possibly have any friends? The high E# of burnishing metal.

Were the midpoint. Permission also means war, death, terror, war, death, and terror. Another histrionic thought of late youth. To feel the marble made of people closing in around you. The longest week this side of yellow history. Hegel magnets, Hegel maggots. The black widow doesn’t mean anything in this century. Armored cars doing their thing in the richer cities, perfectly sanitized in the preamble to the dream. Look at where the face shows up in the frame. I had thought (hoped?) that maybe this silver ring would be more dialogic.

Do anything to continue. Marbled in a freshwater school of economics. Obviously the impressions have not produced their desired effect. Cue the deep-sea enemies revealing their secret outposts and what they have been up to all this time. One hormone humming. No preservatives. George Herbert: “Nothing performs the task of life:” the caesura warrants. Glowing red foil of the protagonist. A floral-patterned icosahedron floating through the space of art, periodically marking a trail so it can return to its point of origin. This is an image stolen from conceptual time.

Marking the irruption with a daunting press release running to the thousands of pages. Horticultural announcement: grace has fallen to color. The manganese hidden within stainless steel. General dissatisfaction with the current political situation. Going way way up the misdemeanor court circuit. An electronics hobbyist holding the key to the city with a big scary grin on her face. It becomes clear eventually that dark matter was a stupid black box we should never have been committed to. Troubles for Quine. The fusillades of Irish history. A military breath.

The Naxalites are controlling their territory. When else would you use “BLUEBIRD” and “ARTICHOKE” together in a sentence. The dapper renegade is running too fast along the dam. He’ll probably fall, which will be tough to explain to his constituents at the funeral. Watch closely the arc of the dive, the parabolic lie it engenders. Call me to tell me on what page in the phrasebook I should look to translate grief. Forcing involves some complex constructions, but it can be done. Should this be alarming to anyone. The thought of my mirror falling into the volcano. The happy example of Empedocles.

Anyway the father is summoning yellow so we should get back to that. A particularly Finnish blue, which I hope is fair to say. Formal ecology sets the standard for democracy like a totally flat pool, which is (of course) temporary and shining. I didn’t set out to do this. The Harmony Department is a real thing in a real place in a real sequence. Sing whenever you want to. The first year will be marred by many an opaque erosion, so the dictates of fairness dictate that one accept such things. O cult of the monosyllable. Working in M without sharing its strong pragmatist leanings. I dropped the cards all over the floor.

The Sprachlogik had begun to wither. How do you contour a relation. The thing is words have been written for a very long time, and spoken longer still. Eventually they won’t. But not yet. Advertising discourse about limits and transcendence. Trying to deal with the glimmering metal against the total black. Physics, of course, can tell you something. The manifold loitering outside the club, ready for whatever. The trident of extremely dark blue.

Pink and dissident red. Precious delegate on the world stage falling like a religion. Team composition as just one of the ecologies to blacken with impunity. Forget the people, it’s a note to self. Bruckner’s unmistakable Phrygian. Try to think about the blood/sport as object. Finding the chosen pattern in a web of marbled indifference, a mutilated mixture wet with spit. The fingerprint has been screaming for six weeks. The excess of desire waiting in the deli line. The pit of humans salted across the galaxy after the lightning-quick invention of mercy.

When will “apparently” eat “actually” and what will it produce upon digestion. Have I asked questions before. A brilliant light green forging ahead through other sensory impulses not our own. The “we” totally imploding, as it does, into two profoundly different letters. Maoesque. One shot at a time which is never war. He will not be the object of a substitution here. The narrative of bi desire: a contradiction in terms or an operant lung breathing steadily. Not having to make the choice. Living in its stead.

∞

February 10, 2017

May fatigue and scraping steel win out over the superego. Thrift. Here’s what happens when one counts the plates: one gets up to four and then they sing so loud they break. The horrendous agenda dying makes. Spur of the moment, spurious moment, maddening homonym, color of grease. Making the self visible like a naive lantern. To describe and decry a shade of pink. Ride on in the clever boat. Defective flowers will wait for you stateside. Good luck and upward habitude.

Wild dogs running around on the plane. A question of constants. Linear hell on earth. Uhhh, modernism? Plot my targets in a thin wind of jeweled centigrade. This is one to know and know deeply. The feral moves will earn you a sidebar, but if you try to take their expressivity too far the Exploited One will catch up with you. I’m afraid of endings. To call him a “bulletin farmer” would have been to misread the noise. Aristotle, Aristotle, wherefore art thou Aristotle?

Here he is; you’re wrong to think it and even more wrong to love it without apologizing. Rapt barricade telling me what to do behind the threat of love. This isn’t my real cloistered face. Don’t forget the hydrophobic middle, that bringer of sea change. I broke my mirror. Don’t forget to bring a voided check for critical illness. To be absolutely childlike in word and deed. Glass in the fingertips, glass in the ears, little pieces of glass all over the nebula. Don’t forget the tired singer huddling under the sullied web. “In the midst of human weakness.”

In the midst of human weakness the obvious haunch appears. Milquetoast afternoon of nothing doing. Paint on the jeans and the boots and the punch card. Pairs of headlights screaming into infinity just like the jackknife Nature expected. To be horny and galloping. Continue to be interesting or die under the blood moon. The poet the poet the waiver the poet. Preliminarily slated to occur. Checkbox. A moonbeam rating the possible spring.

Like Proust but with Gattaca overtones. What in the post-grunge Sam Hill are we up against. Covetous bluegrass the way you first thought of love, rolling bedward with crossed legs and a broad feeling. The gulps and the boroughs. The impulse is to shave the whales, relievedly. Amorousness moved around and around to unexpected places, where the index for expectation was an assembly of mules. Periods appear as commas in this Cheshire light. Tone color of course but we’ve been here before. Window florid cartoon summer people places network drummer iron horseplay fortitude. The charism of a part of speech shaking dumbly before the jury.

The poetry king of going to sleep. Marfa, Texas like the worst of the best of many habits. I like the attitude of that sonogram. The forest heard & wailed & wailed. Oriented toward the silly and ridiculous bird who was desperately titivated by the taxidermist during the eleventh hour. It’s true, I do try to blur the green. The egg wash is the second thing. Dilute the frame with some compositional elements that are arguably intentional but also arguably not, given your trivial stature as an auteur. A repeated beat of retained sanity. Long long staticked fadeout.

Black white, red, green yellow, blue, brown, purple pink orange gray. Experience the different timbres you mediocre lambchop. The goal is definitely to trick you. To push you in the mouth voice. For sale: Multi-use property, retail & duplex, all the fixin’s, draped over in borrowed clothing. Hammers singing with the wherewithal of a torrid sky. Don’t wish to go looking. Revelation happens one word at a time. This might have been a curious symptom, once. Please adjust your privacy settings now.

Reading only the introductions and only out loud. Bottom of the barrel. Kim Hyesoon: “Death, Woman, [South] Korea, You, Seoul, Absence, Illness, Rats, Poetry”. Please poet don’t be scared of information. The vital shimmer showing through for the first time. Also accessible to those without an alphabet, like sleep. The toilet water is listening but it is also singing and you shouldn’t be scared. Draw out the engagement with the everyman, if you have the time. Sketch it out in the fullest detail that the nation-state’s always-fresh-never-frozen taxpayers can afford. This will make it easier later when there are fewer slush piles available to migrate away from.

They lie about their inseams, whether intentionally or not. The painter drives a Mini Cooper. How sure are we of the copyright on “Neon Politics”? The spreader whiled way out, into the subterranean forces of an earlier time. The données are ripe for the sorting, peaking as they did in the late ‘70s, early ‘80s. The marauder openly defying her second name, to which she did not assent but which was assigned to her. I’ll go on record as the first to find a ventricle in our common bones. The premonitions of my death have grown more frequent. The Hamburglar knows exactly how long it will take. She won’t tell me, as punishment for my egocentricity.

Kitchen table poem ready go. The art world what gives a circumflex accent. All I know about is tulips. Dirt the fire unstable, left swallowing the brown bags and windpipes. The business world semaphore is a dark question. These sharks are so fast. Missing the circle with everything. A daunting flush in the left cheek, the right one burned off. Consider this a testament. Blue boat floating in the trees.

∞

January 10, 2017

∞

December 10, 2016

Words fail and only the fact of address remains. “The people of” as misdirection. A clinical meander, parameterized by fire and ice, circulating. If I say a body decomposes then I’m already doing some tottering theology. Keep calm and hold love in your heart. Advertising, that weird biochemical. The taiga looking back over its shoulder when it turns the corner, cutting off a chunk of the labyrinth. The voice billowing up from the billfold, whispering bigotries like a soft cancer. Doubled stacks like this all week. On the seventh day, the eighth seal became the ninth most important thing on the grocery list, divided up into tenths of reciprocal sound.

Seeking units to begin. Soil the raspberry leaf the dew and the apperceptive moment, breaking. Humble waffling cloud. Childlike unity of experience, clumsily differentiated with medical equipment that the universe forgot to sterilize. Feted rose, fetid rose, rows and rows of bleached benches for the lamb to lie down on. Sorry from the picture dust of the library, overrun with Hegel supporters. “Tusk home of wrought value,” The Deceiver sneered. The only insight is that water thinks. Sparkling quiddity repeating the same take until the film runs out. We’re shooting on digital, naturally, but it’s still a pressing concern.

Thomism says it should be easy. Olive oil in the urinal or what. Tea leaves are embracing the difference I was sternly told to try. Secret markup of the Holy Hand wresting the chess piece from the Talon of wicked pain. Not all fructose can be thought of as free. This is but one event in the cage. A mild, quixotic moon. Forerunner of tension, believing in the ghost of an opportune rhythm. In or with, in or with, in or generated with. Pontophaedusa funiculum’s shell aperture firmly closed.

Awake but conscious of the failures of sense. The mulberry’s shattered sacred heart in the compass rose. A greening fortitude marketing the close wet tree. I’m a little gray on taking pool. Your doctorate beneath a sheet of ice. Discussing the right not to be watched. A split valve on the meat rack, drying. Trumpeter’s misfortune shaping the logic of the noun phrase. The solicitor general as king of the universe, unchallenged and lording mostly over dark matter. A kiss in a vial, fluid in the unassuming eye, a friend of a friend divining the true electoral mechanism just in time.

The snake is full of answers. Doing good by the morose charioteer, uncheered by tooth decay. Brittle forest vine tied to the azaleas and the myriad shapes of shame. One nation, under mud, invisible. Incantatory subject line with cursor blinking black white. Graph of the graphic, love of the lovesick, spit of the hospital. Less the interior than the inside and more the flock than the herd. Machine-washable ecumenism getting what it paid for. In an important way this is all pretend. A theoretical beach.

Imagine the uncorked Zoroastrianism setting the tone for the striated lamb. The hidden secret of moon tile, filibuster, a red sand. The telecommute singing into being a loaf of bread. “They treat me as a dead object.” Staunch murder like a wizened closet forgetting the grammatical order. “It is deeper than the human voice, and more ancient still.” Toxic continuity. And not even kindling was enough for them then. Reinstating the small bounty of plumbed depths, cars speeding too quickly by. Code it for a register machine and we’ll worry about the details.

Life in the ambiguous copse, bordering on a clearing but still not the first word you’d use. Yasunao Tone’s wounded CD praying in the obvious way. The movie’s way of seeing you, like a furry depth or an arched back. The dubious villain of certain migration darting into and out of the lock, the pencil sketch of his face giving zero information about the finalized article. Sometimes you want to scream (or howl) in the middle of the poem, and do, but that suffices for so little now. It really is a poetics of the embrace, or at least the embouchure. My project of the law asleep again. Snowed-in movements. A polysyllabic flower name working against settled expectations. Religiosity a hand-sewn garment absolutely torn to shreds.

Dowsing for better strategies from within the unmarked, unlocked forest. The marigolds tempered with literal blood. Sexual ornamentation like a bright and unoptional sash worn thoroughly out of season. Getting and keeping the marrow intact. I’m stuck in wholesome prison. A little bit slower to write the atmosphere complaint. The year that we develop algebra death. A harsh blast of the heir apparent. I think I mock its quiddity because of its special relationship to my person, to my unspeakable deeds. Few shards remain to reinstate.

He of the bright-eyed politics, “[t]urning away from the risks of loving another”, had to dig yet a third grave. I give you these for questionable reasons, for purification and healing, for night sweats and lost luggage. As pedagogy kills you. The indigestion as a perpetual fault of processing fee by higher means, mythically unlevel and truthfully blind. Rip the ripped ripcord unsubtly, as the gestures demand. Froth in a totally free action descending to quiet. A match made in the afterstrife. Protean teachers make great targets. I encourage you to deviate in the bent grass. Bear out the waiting list for a true sense of remission.

Losers’ fees are worshipped here, without question. Let me know when you’re done sculpting the bank of common time. Quiet, hideous Nature doffed a cap with no owner. Someone’s credit cards must bear the scars of that. I propose to a pillow or a matriarch, but not both. Secretly intervening in the daft lair, which makes her more practiced. I’m fairly certain eternity plays defense. As for the renegade, which bundle must I panegyrize in order to be closest to consistent? Time did little to erode her faithfulness. “And therefore the edge is widest and sharpest in the middle.”

∞

November 10, 2016

Have you ever squashed three things together and also made the feeling come apart? To think I hadn’t even noticed the cross until well after the end. Beyond the window that you see. The dungeon dripping with the dirty water we tend to share recklessly. A very tall man with blasphemer hands. Life-force in newtons, not kilojoules. The emerging theme is us sitting together and talking about us sitting together and talking. (Cheeky repetition this time.) I’m building up an immunity to friendly questions. The fox jumped real high when its skin caught fire.

The profile of a cheap, concealable handgun. A permanently disabled smoke detector. Staunch republicanism beating your eardrums. Courting the militant infection on the 24-hour news channel with storebought chocolate and old roses. How do you deal with the intensity of the situation from a place of softcore porn and the absence of feedback? It becomes about production in the end. Brian O’Doherty: “A room does talk to you, in various accents and with uncertain clarity.” And again: “I have felt it exhale on my forehead off and on for 60 years.” The defibrillator poking holes in our best theories. All clear.

“I don’t wear rain as often.” Some nothing on the radio to feel embedded in. The wet nose of amorous waiting. Connecting to all the rivers in the region. Arrogant backwater denying another country. The water table evinces mentation, but the mechanics of exactly how are beyond the scope of this monograph. Klangfarbenmelodie wedged between the seats. Violent trumpet red. How do you make snow feel dead when it’s scheming right beneath your feet? The lone bassoon continues, unaccompanied, through every hidden parameter disguised by the night air.

If I’m happy I’m happy and if I’m not happy I’m not happy. Relentless deflationism contouring truth to the landscape. An underlying velvet hate to steer away from the port. Unhumble sacrifices to The God Who Breaks Things. Difficult to square metaphysics with the dents in the real we harvest every day to do politics. Populism hiding in the sewers, impossible to track, tricky to trace. Spores exploding outward into the open air. The queerness of the nasal cavity. Graham Harman: “the cryptic, concealed God who communicates only by signs.” The God of the philosophers.

Crestfallen, the intimate neck continues to contain the wistfully unintimate throat. Ballgown sigil without regard for poetry. The dense mortal fury of identical crystal wounds in both lobes. Lovers contained in burlap sacks admiring the shaded view. Deleuze: “the grotesque trinity of child, poet, and madman.” An imprint in the nose singing the concatenated song that encodes all reason. Quantifier friction storing heat. Other blips in the hill’s body mildly stirring. Accountable to the fox’s ear. The blood the same blood accreting since history, often found spilling out of some new terrible derailment.

Please remember how this feels. “Is the sun alive?” The dignitary posing the question was also running the hearing and typing all the notes, so most of it came out weird. Here’s what survived: the tongue of a word on high heat. Goofball imprimatur. Dirty twigs drying after the final burst of the wet season. “I do not like to write when I feel miserable.” Conjuration in a steadfast blue light among the reapers. Knocking down the successions and continuities that give undue comfort. Suffered, died, and was buried.

Investigative journalism of the mouth. Baseless conditionals. Need I remind you you are under oath. Vanity working long hours to stock the shelves and to reply to all the customers in need of assistance. Homesick trip in a time of suffering and need. Weakness, weakness, mantra, folly. Deliberate limestone of religion. Lonesome tomato singing from the bottom of a pitcher. Ice blunting the beautiful wound. Start over sitting in the moraine, holding out for the optimal vantage point that will even out the odds by never appearing.

The smell of cytosine in the nuclear magnetic resonance quantum computer implementing reversible logic. Stuck up here at the silly level. Trying to develop the film from the darkness below. Allergic to cinema. Decriminalizing the hearth one unit of marrow at a time. The evil mirror of unprincipled measurement. When is the music coming back? Hardening like brutish dogma clutched to the chest of May. It’s possible that the arachnologists will not get around to your quarter this year. A pity, given the unparalleled glory they would find.

Joke. Creeping through judgment like a poet in a meat bunker. The relentless fashion sense informing forward progress. Banality of cheese curds and tempered rationalism. Typecast dream: empty hangar, rocket fuel. A dearth of credible assistance. The wayfarer in cement shoes. Stippled with bright red parking meters. Catchy enigma. A polarizing thriller with a sexy charm and ample witticisms to spare.

Indefinite saga of the hot potato. Changing hands en route to dispossession. The rest of the followers were routine enough to do without having, feeding instead on the grandiosity of the speckled moment. Sharing a common pause. High-energy tomfoolery until the language runs out. Mystical union of body and legalese, dignity and advertising, the soul and overpriced stuffing. One lesson of flesh is burrow deeper. Nihil obstat so on we go with the original coat of arms. Don’t forget it means separation, not steam. The thrill of the chase in a chaste high noon against that too-familiar backdrop of the desert.

∞

October 10, 2016

I only know a typographical justice. Risen and shining. Yes to the whole songbook as exactly the yes the bullet is interested in. More excited that than excited about. Have misdiagnosed literally everything so far. Summoning without ever having opened. Heavy bouts of therapeutic nihilism. Melancholy, I say to myself, outside of poetry. All of them aspects of experience swirling above the meringued reef, pinned by the voice that leads them along the parade route. When exactly did the gun enter knowing, and how is it that the marketplace of unplayable tempi manages to make things even worse?

The gamble has a rhythm that speaks at one elevation, though no further. (Further up nor further down.) Death as oncoming traffic. A middling troubadour howling at the razor’s edge of the forest. The poem worn like arbitrary fabric. The blood stupidly smeared on the brightening day. Seeking avenues that rhyme with the consternation of state-sponsored architecture: meretricious columns, stone steps, unforgiving walls and ceilings, the works. A set of diachronic approaches to the same troubled cliffs, plus field notes and a yearning for topography. Salt in the hair belies salt in the mind. Extend mentation to the breakers and see what washes up.

“Pure luminance without color.” Someone somewhere made a free choice once and you have to live with the consequences. That’s a joke the size of most planets, of course, but the outcome is the same. Space, spatiality, and other moribund metaphors. Rebecca Farivar: “there ultimately is something that doesn’t resonate when an object is thinking.” When the quick simplicity of the judgment throws into sharp relief the protracted complexity of the mechanism. (e.g., My thoughts are stupid.) The front door opening onto a tornado you hadn’t heard coming. The theoretical fact that the building will be brought down, less theoretical with you in it. Needing lifeboats for the air.

Wind can kill and wind can lift. The way we drink places. Basin, ravine, clogged artery, attempt at the sartorial on the level of “the” human. A treed grove punching into thunder. Bury your poem in the frozen ground. An act of trailing thought, not tracing it. The idea about things having contours having contours. Suppose we map the land injectively into the body of an ant. Whose sirens will go a-clanging when we take our host of cross-sections? Me, I want to feel my bones as they’re being cut open.

A line of raw turpitude. That is to say, not a line at all: a shoddy box, second dimension brazen and prosaic, the excess akin to depravity as I’m speaking to you now. Parallel to the horizon like a dead frog. Dented air filling the solenoid magnetizing the staunch bark of your crystalline paper eye. Dimensions going up and up and the fever failing to subside. The flagship gunnery staving off peace like the proper delegate fallen from the earth. Recall that this is a picture window in which you have options. One option is to fumigate the hollow bones of birds. One option is to peter out gently through the caverns of time. One option is to fortify and wait.

No sexual vocabulary whatsoever. What it feels like to treasure the hours lying awake in bed, conscious but not getting up. Roused gently by the changing air and light, sliding into the way day decides. Choice in the thinning contexts of sleep. One of the great cellular mysteries: what color does ice reflect when threatened with cornflower blue? The boneyard madrigal. When all of history becomes a card trick. Nothing to go on but sound as the guiding thread of night. Apposite, you die slowly—the slowest. I have never held on to friction.

The sour burn of entrepreneur. A word with population density. It’s political if there’s division, and there will always be division. I put patches of bark on my skin and wear them on the beach. Power is ridiculous. A soul in your pocket. The meditative canvas burns with reflected light while the melancholy absorption cycle continues mid-flight, mildly disappointing beneath the soap scum of unpredictable fear. A computer doing better at making noun phrases. Aural murder pending. Clutching at a voice.

If given the chance, would you describe yourself? Needing to look around and swallow air. Geese leading, patrolling, surveying, defining the small stream. Immigrated math. The who you know. If we think, we should think of Constance as a name. Just enough moving parts to get worried. Depict an arrow piercing mercury, the capitalized or uncapitalized kind, racing to the bottom of memory to see if there’s anything there for it to impale. Naturally, it bounces off the ocean floor, whatever “ocean” means. The boundary operator kills everything eventually.

“Hopefully yesterday will be a better day.” There’s lots of problems with my body. For one thing, I can’t see the ceiling. Delusion: I think that my death will be theatrical and make literary sense. He—meaning he—has dragged me a summons from the other shore. You are traffic. Truth as exercising (exorcizing?) power. Head like leather: just as damaged, just as strange. Your I goes with you. “This house is a museum and I’ve never been in it.”

The mathematical absolute as raw confidence. Athenian democracy in your right eye, method acting bold and brilliant in your left. The hoplite staring back at you across the table. Please don’t expect not to get pushback on this, friend. The organon ripe for further differentiation. An armadillo making the briefest appearance, then melancholically returning to the woodwork. The technician’s precision-engineered point of view. Deferring to the second-highest bidder: see what she has to say, adding to the memory bank. The sugar pulse creeping through the median. Ample time to introduce a character and give the reader a sense of their surroundings, their master plan for a finished house.

∞

September 10, 2016

∞

August 10, 2016

I only know a typographical justice. Risen and shining. Yes to the whole songbook as exactly the yes the bullet is interested in. More excited that than excited about. Have misdiagnosed literally everything so far. Summoning without ever having opened. Heavy bouts of therapeutic nihilism. Melancholy, I say to myself, outside of poetry. All of them aspects of experience swirling above the meringued reef, pinned by the voice that leads them along the parade route. When exactly did the gun enter knowing, and how is it that the marketplace of unplayable tempi manages to make things even worse?

“Pure luminance without color.” Someone somewhere made a free choice once and you have to live with the consequences. That’s a joke the size of most planets, of course, but the outcome is the same. Space, spatiality, and other moribund metaphors. Rebecca Farivar: “there ultimately is something that doesn’t resonate when an object is thinking.” When the quick simplicity of the judgment throws into sharp relief the protracted complexity of the mechanism. (e.g., My thoughts are stupid.) The front door opening onto a tornado you hadn’t heard coming. The theoretical fact that the building will be brought down, less theoretical with you in it. Needing lifeboats for the air.

∞

July 10, 2016

TO STOP USING DRAMATURGY AS A METAPHOR. Scared of the intensity mismatch. Sickly lilac coven of militants. A thousand metal hornets in the forest of the word. Uses inappropriate or ineffective rituals. Sighs urging Congress to scream different sentences into the night. Defining the black teardrop for you. The day-to-day violent suffering of your mother’s past. Acting in // acting on // acting out // acting up. For that we that trees deplete in seeing other trees.

The more or less good life. “Each train has only one operator.” Lyn Hejinian: “The very normal poet laborious [/] on a convexity”. Two lumps of sugar in the sewage of the sprawling metropolis, i.e. the beginnings of change. Molehill equalizer in his fetid hand. Circuits of cleverness despite all the drinking. “[T]he sweet meat of playing ally when the best status one can hope for is that of collaborator.” Nostalgia a rock formation. Terraforming a glance, through space and in time, of lovers. Harlequin in his happiest mood somersaulting in the Flying World.

Difficulter and difficulter to delineate. Snow White as the object of lament, lamentation, and peculiar futility. The kiss of the non-sequitur bringing life. “This terminology is horrible but standard.” Is the love poem stupid. Murder is a fire that claims half the house but still operates within the law, awaiting restitution. The sourer of the fresh pears in the process of deployment through vacuums artificially gambled on by fruit trees. Syphilitic consternation is the only kind. Obliquity of the ecliptic. Saddle magnetism the way she hangs on brightly to the captive.

Antipodal infections burning both ends of that stubborn information bundle. Grassy wind through the ravine. The nadir of identity. Happy everything. Sticking it to the man in neighborly weather. The trouble with seeing the world first through crosshairs, then through fate. The moral quantity of one feeling. Tom Snarsky is not a fucking serious person. All of the internet is connected, dear father. Nosebleeds of mitochondria at work at last.

Taking the lead provisionally, like a dance with feedback and switching interiorities. The fish struggling furiously—though never blindly—against the national current. Djuna Barnes: “cheap cuts from the beast life,” accessible to every jangle of nervous bears, cf. Auden. Total derangement of the sentences. A skittish ribcage in the sky. Skimming the bold ideas for the sweat of apology. I swear to god I’ll run away with the mass grave. O my pulverized lampshades of ribald domesticity. Reveling in the meted grammar. Please save your work before continuing.

Toward a paralytics of the poem. Building on a traditional asterism. Originally, mirrors were built using raw insight instead of the measurements in the catalogue. Trashgender mortals in every hole of the microphone. The order barked through the megaphone didn’t meet the necessary requirements to become word. My heart screaming like a stupid bankruptcy. Put it in the context of a body entire and see if it shines. Quiet dyadic movement at the bottom of the marsh. Over-reliant on vision in the act of sound. Fortunately, despite all that, the lynx population in Finland continues to grow.

“Chesko” was the name Robert Lax used when he clowned. Please don’t forget that all our romances are adolescent. Delimiting is often unwise but it is also occasionally prudent. Teetering on the probabilistic brink of biology. Quintessential dream of the special sciences. To know exactly what is coming next. Fenced spine under night and streetlamp. Conor Dougherty: “the room was full of angst and contradictions.” Well-lit throughout, the unrequited love architecture earned rave reviews. The bodies under the floorboards were obviously never found.

The very controlled first shot as a clarion call for the seeker. Sacramental Being stopped in the security line, pulled out for a pat-down. In light of the stink. The skew line between subversion and dogma. Sticking in the syrup of soup-kitchen theology. Subtle intensification of the domestic. Arm on fire. Cute & brittle hermitage. The conifer bruising my ankles cries out in the sea of mercy. Words around words until the fullness falls apart.

June 10, 2016

“There is no universal answer, but your comment is very valid.” How to rip a Happy Meal clean in two, right out of the history books. The subordinate plane where the beautiful souls do the glittery work of sitting. About as sophisticated as poached milk. A dog breathing down the animal bones of my muddy kingdom. Let it tell you a story: fluid anarchy and the ways of being free of charge, of charges. Properties of the empty set. Please pay attention to the alphabetic principle. Sitting here carrying a wandering wave, wondering whom to throw it to next. Oh and of course you just snuff out the grammar.

In recent years as well as the past, the antidotes form a bigger ocean. This is something you should be able to visualize in your mind. No peeking. The florid rhythm of the clock and the bicycle crash. From voice to speech all the way back through the vocoder and out onto the street where the paramedics are working their magic. Hoarse reed ringing the bell. The silly long group work of performative henology. A fortnight of sewing with improvised heart and no needle. Gozo Yoshimasu burying the dead. The imbrication of absolute forgettings that wakes every few years and makes its rounds.

I don’t know where we’re headed, but boy are we headed. “[F]leeting larvae on the earth.” Where is the abstracted body? Under the stack of pancake people. “Will you lie down on your couch, shut your eyes and forget about the data?” Older and more invisible every day. Endlessly cloning chives in the heart of the political. Suicidality freshens perpetually so we replace the sticker and restamp the date. An apple crinkling in the dark under a wooden light, seldom on. The symphony of pronouns in German philosophy continues.

Recanting every past, present, and future referent-we in the system. “What is bureaucratic in these fantastic machines which are peoples and poems?” The particular cloudiness of your mother’s birthday. You’re in a naked envelope. The air is dry and the vortices are waiting on the hood of the car, the thin smell of oil draping the air. Foucault hole. A quip of latched speech. Snakeskin in a bucket of water. Fail the hardest. “[T]runk turned into a 18 in dollhouse”.

Bit-part truth in the skin of a lamb howling to itself all day. Whole weeks of ending every poem with the same word. Eminent domain of the crepuscule marking two others for resignation, their posts already expiring out from under them. “[T]heir slim cleave” (Camille Rankine again). No arithmetic to be seen for miles around. When an artist cuts out a hyperobject for you, thank her and quizzically demand another. Wanting to start with “cut” every time. In the pines, the great insights I rely on are swimming in cute pools of the final art form to descend from space. Trust. Feverish becoming at work on the palimpsest.

Bipartite revelation. “The triple space of this plinth:” lumps, naps, and celery. Come the spring, a morbid dusk sings the angels away from their dead fires. I should have talked to you about cutting your hair. The well-ordered field where Wozzeck worries about the trombones. Is that too sharp to step back into? Distal questions are as much a stalling tactic as they are a drunken mode of panhandling. Say more about class differences. Care? Perpetual motion required by the thought, impossible in the feeling, harbored by the noncommittal press.

Your eyes they shine like diamonds. In your car telling me about the women. In a puzzling place beside exegesis. All these “in”s compensating for impossibility. Incompatibility. I need a much stronger deformation theory for this. Mutualism stuttering forth into middling perceptions—back from the brink of sex, horticultural speculations, open borders, geopolitical commitments, saffron crocuses, snowy owls, sex swings and the longing ache tied to a name. Working to stage it the way you intended. The joke is the philosophers, lovers, livers, and shades standing behind us. Definitely articulated and fearfully touched.

Mistyped “Sara Teasdale” as “sad”—alleluia, alleluia—and now the forgery nears completion. Elegies for unrecorded poems. The unknowable interior of anything with teeth. Lord of nothing else. Sing up here to singe the song of ages. Just seriously enough to stumble. What do you think about the thickness of liquids? A gaggle of clerics in passive synthesis. Different kinds of eyes leaning into the shade, congealing in the absence of sunlight. Cowering beneath the history of poetry.

“Or” redefining “we”. Double doom of the technical saint counting from zero. The Devil sends his war machine into a crystal cave and then awakens as a young boy in a rainstorm. Gerund barrage. The smear of reading. All being dead together. A middle fourth Cantor set under your fingernails. Medievally, no trains are coming, and the less I know about that the more wind you can have in your blood of bloods. A cheerful present, one I hope you wanted. Furtwängler’s mouth exploding into Hindemiths, get-well cards, the future, and the end of days, right on time.

Here lie students in the paradigm of visibility. The variable nape of justice. Virtuality doesn’t make for better decisions. Identity does not exit. Unfortunately, I’m in the middle of an ugly heart. Part and a part and apart. Laurel Schneider: “Clarity is knowing the productive vitality of fog.” Feeling like a mountain shaping the atmosphere. My emotional superstructure composed of water and gravity. Step inside, sure—but don’t get wet.

∞

May 10, 2016

Incorrect sanctum of the beloved’s memory, whole and imperfect. Love hung loose on the tatters of Ephraim. In the dark you cannot feel or see. Subcutaneous wriggling to unsettle the mind. The huge jump from vaguely resemblant to professionally trained. Bedside homonyms. Do not delay. Mitigate language-like language like language. Too unspecific for your stars? “Little fist that pumps the blood.”

A stop here to let the wolves hide out for the day. DJing the reunion. To raise our left hand. Heterodox memory. Kicked into guitar strings pre-loaded with malice and noise. Unkempt bridegroom. My poet as a singer poor in voice. An invoice coming over the wire. The saddest animal in the hutch. Inner galaxies with vendettas need not apply.

Cockle saw at knifepoint. The resemblance of cockles to hearts. Betraying the basics of our collective training. The hills far out at the intersection of light with light. Weird artifact of the judgment game. Switch your focus to thunder. There’s just some random death that happens. Snippets of thing. Processing Ponge at the rate of one tomato per annum. A very large fencepost that absorbs all sound.

Of research caliber. Always more unveiling. “Male partly masking female.” O ye who traffic in ambiguous reference. Touch my mouth with your dead fish face. A functional Jesus. Something cryptic lurking in the militant love. My least favorite part of living in America. A hamming distance between minds.

A conception of adulthood as respect—but not reverence—for the particular. A light rain driven into your ear. My death is imminent. A roaring pink distant future. The prayer of the ergodic clinging to paths beyond hobbled greenery. Fetid gangplank demanded by the sign of the encounter. The directorial debut of the concrete presence of a silent need for ceasefire, overturned by gray going. You’ll recall that descriptors breed with the utmost discernment. Fantasia of bite marks and corollary undertones. Wryly gilding the knife to be used in the derelict play.

I’m not really interested in the sound of hearts gloating in a magnetic field. Anything to say about the corners. Mewling disregard of clothed geometry. I’m absolutely in love with death machinery. Take this chicanery for what it is: Serinus canaria domestica, a tiny neurogenetic songbird. Big hair, don’t care. Repetitive apology giving way to a weird light particular to this location. The lover squirming in the pool along secant reflections. When myrrh becomes the buzzword among bloodthirsty entrepreneurs. A bag of almonds in the hand is worth billions out of circulation.

“He now inhabited a space that was dirtless.” Thanks through your teeth. I don’t soak German. Flowery English and saying whatever we want. Libelous the cold hands in the springtime, where they were. The myriad subtleties of phenomenal hope. Becoming through history the ring of the flower, the gold in a pile of bones. Of course other people need you because they do not know how beautiful and how hideous they are. Clean up the wretched forge. Clean up the wretched forge.

“This reflects a child’s emerging awareness of the symbolic nature of language.” Glued to the node. I blue the book yesterday (it was expensive). Almighty flatness of the universe. Brother as brother, murderer as skeptic, louse as full-grown armament. Misshapen communication at high noon. Barriers to intent crushed bodily into the potholes just outside, on the street. Intimate merchandise. Throughout my engagement with the animate son, two or three or four warnings manifested themselves such that I clearly should have known what to do. “This shows that the writer has some understanding of the symbolic nature of language.”

Peter Jay Shippy: “Their eyes are image orthicons.” Myeloid reasoning thrown up to the sky in the heat of November. Paper mushrooms unexpected in the sewer. The bank teller agog as the mace swings in true medieval character. Clanging through the armor we brought purely as backup. Bézier curves sounded sexy in the ‘90s. Christian in air quotes. Levity boils under the skin, which is some crucial topography to remember for the exam. Birthright to coyote shit on the stone abutting Tenochtitlan. William Bronk singing a low lullaby, without singing.

Lunaria is a word I’d like to be. Copping to the prison ship along the coasts of Father Time. Vague whiff of crotch. The masculinist nebula doing gravitational work you’d never expect. All this so far along a slider, an abacus, tallying but falling off the other end. A sandcastle on a dime. Tawny anthropology done on the étale topos of your mother’s dream home. The coarseness familiar both as need and as shameful hidden object. Cinnamon deep in the marrow. The way a child views a carnival.

∞

April 10, 2016

Look how many words I know. Feeding the rope slowly down the well. A punctilious act of faith in the bottom. Missionary, with pluck. Sad velvet. The simple image of a grapefruit alone somewhere with no money or friends to speak of. Time traveling to the same place only to find that Earth is no longer there. Sentimental campground. Some might call it holy minimalism. Or whatever the muffins need.

Hilarious hiccup of the universe. Childhoods lengthen and lengthen. “If every tiny flower wanted to be a rose, spring would lose its loveliness.” Stupid atlas. Complexly charting the hearts of millions—on fire, gold, bleeding. Queer girders working against inertia. Writing poems for the sake of everything they’re not. Cheeky reversals. Hate war more here, now. Boredom, a furtive option hooked into the mechanism.

Conjugation as control shifting under. Another impossible error. Context-dependent superlatives. In addition to being being an addition to self. Conspiring against uncertainty. Weird double image of a fly on the window. Important side note: Life springs eternal whether I’m here or not. Fashion Week in Milan. The parabolic life. Never getting to the points where there are no clothes.

Shouldered years ago like lead feathers. Cautiously optimistic about the carrot juice. Leaning towards absurdity, not deafness. And believe me there is a difference. The scratching makes it stop. The spine of this paragraph. Four representatives of the American people. The Italian school of algebraic geometry. Forklift in the membrane. Entirely inscrutable to date.

Piles and piles of sun. Meatball surgery. Find a birdwatching book for Dad’s birthday. Stimulated by Gromov ideas. Utterly and completely free. Kunihiko Kodaira in the middle of the evidence. The stickiness of history. Dying with enough. Scorched intimacy of psychic bloomers. The movement away from the larynx and toward inner sound.

A deep scary eldritch mine shaft in which lies Trakl. Let Q be the diver. Earth has a thickness. An abandoned lake. There’s nothing here that puts me in the right box. Parsimony at the great hill. Both supra-personal and personal. The fuck as “pure thought.” A blast at the big opening. Concision as advantage as concision as advantage.

The president dreams that you are presenting him with chess puzzles he cannot solve. He never sees you out in the world, only here with the wandering Wazirs. Mythopoesis is bothersome. Tired moats are boring because alone. To posit one entity in a theory of wind. Tell me everything you can tell me about fear. “One gets to the heart of the matter by a series of experiences in the same pattern, but in different colors.” I’m helping you along here. Rafting like ants up a cliff. Into the home of the bewildered eye.

Pointing as an assassination attempt, of sorts. Cobordism a small flame lit at the tip of an arrow hurtling into. Grammatical personhood. Quality of kings’ breath plotted over time. Plotting deep into the evening with Vera and her nihilists. Plagiarist of political purpose. We inspect, anticipate, distrust the first-person plural. Paradox habitat. Foraging for the supine in the thrill of anecdotes with no listeners. Your conlang has no audience.

I’m going to stand to my conviction. Monstrous confounding variables. One hundred ninety-six thousand eight hundred eighty-four studies of squirrels. A hiccup in the Key of Solomon. That insidious biped myth. Go see the God in the Hell. A slight diffraction in the house of worship. “I think he did suffer a little bit.” To kill them by some operations. As if the rivers in their righteousness could betray that they are kind.

I’ve got to do this polynomial thing. It came from an organic place. The count as one until the insect cannot breathe. Mission creep of the spiracle until all is air. Not to concentrate on the contranegative. An alphabet of dollars in my pocket. The words are metrical and not for you. Blooming at things with an ugly, self-serving purpose. The binding coming unglued and people drawing all sorts of undue conclusions. To reiterate: I am using the griffins to accomplish something.

∞

March 10, 2016

Ironically cleaning the river. An argument of sky flown through monism, making its final approach. “[O]nly chance lies in the composing of a new theoretical music.” Rhyme and meter of the Chinet Comfort Cup. “I was thinking about the potato salad in an unstable environment.” At the very least, some soup. Growing up in a land of synaptogenesis and not a lot on the walls. There have been studies. “Poets were absent from the landscape.” A dish full of coffee floating downstream, a large dish, one that can stay afloat on the river Styx without much trouble.

Trying “to abide present in this keeping.” Forging the love songs to sing on the grave of the deer. Stealing because I’m colordeaf and toneblind. Skintight metaphor doing the usual circuit. Certain concepts that cannot be. Poetry is tough when it isn’t spectral, which leads to graph theory in back alleys. Deontology just sort of sliding off like oil and wrestling. The backbreaking, rock-skipping, pusillanimous, fungible real. Harbormaster, puppetmaster, tied, drawn, and quartered. Who would win in a fight: the fear of pain, or a buoy so far out it looks pixelated?

A full moon rising from behind a tree. Velcro and “peach tea” on a mission, each attempting to come to know the other. Correlating the brazier’s light with the smell of deep worry hundreds of shark moons ago. Fours screaming through the history of philosophy. Atropaic making done in bellies in cafeterias in the Northern Hemisphere of an Earth in big trouble. Fryolator of hidden ambition, psalmist of retail love. Books have the power to kill, but only the ones you care about. Safety is knowing about the tunnel trap before it cuts your hair. Very few pieces of thermodynamic evidence. Rope for a symphony, around the feet of the first viola, winding all the way through to the back and disappearing under the curtain.

God as dead by definition. Letting her enjoy hers without violence. It was a big surprise when death appeared to her in a sandbox, in what guise we cannot know. Just that it did, un fait accompli, like positive science. Trying to get ahold of language that knows it’s instrumentally indexed. Not a problem for poetry but certainly a problem for the moon. Norma Cole: “Concern with [/] continuity is [/] a continuity [/] or lack [/] of it”. I don’t know why human. Habit formation of trinkets on the beach. Sand into sandcastles, cordoned off and photographed.

Attempting to claim adulthood as a deciduous child in a tall costume with a heavy mask. Unpack your adjectives. Clumping up weirdly as extreme sport. Doctor Atomic skipping madly in the Blu-Ray player, a deep elliptical scratch on the relevant side. A video of the video disk, spinning. The taste of blood in the back of the throat. The bathroom tile screaming back at you. Blue hair in profile in the black porcelain in the mirror at an angle from the hanging head. Comorbidity not knowing its way around the function hall, which is how you made it to this bathroom in the first place. Next to a utility closet, which is both perfectly reasonable to expect and, in these extreme circumstances, one of life’s impeccable small mercies.

A homeomorphism between shrines. The speaker of the poem on a gurney at last, with a solid chance at a full recovery before rehearsal. “We have the body.” And how do we find it? “[M]arked by the sounds of language only to know.” Difficultly emotionally unintelligent by choice. Starring poetry as a cheap candle. Definitely a description. Deploying the appropriate military metaphor, leaving the property metaphor cutely implicit. A type of boxed era where the boxer is buried or dead.

The world beyond the world beyond language. Flammables. “The human gust.” If we take on board (and antedate) the notion that no thing goes unmixed. The continuo of a video highlight reel of lesser-known sedatives and aphrodisiacs. O quantum sounds. Commingling the taste and smell of mint. Types of rainfall: convectional, frontal, relief. Chewing the cudgel with others. Little motions of the mouth, dancing with the infidel, and other national pastimes.

“Love is a wound that will happen.” Sorghum bicolor versus Striga hermonthica playing out on the walls of the cinema. Needing something about winter. Can’t touch the universe with a polearm. Hard to care about the correct word for conatus when it’s bearing down on you and you can’t convince yourself you’ll make it. Snow on the boulevard. Experimental fiction, burning. Terminological systems, a translation scheme, an arbiter and a jackknife. Impossible choice meets the axiom of choice meets your friendly neighborhood life insurance policy. The thru-way through the weigh station was stationary, but for the way it climbed.

The difference between “malaise” and “quagmire”. Making what one will of the division, even if it’s a bus like in the Peter Chimaera story. House, flesh, room, et cetera, all backwards. Hannah van Binsbergen: “Elke dag vindt een vergissing plaats”. Don’t you dare italicize that. Add to the mistake. Next in line. Frugal moon, fickly visible, dormant, bright. Trough of the eternal bridegroom’s vegetal morrows. Sexed magnificence of the word.

Struggling with the life as given. Leonine purity ring. Palmed into fewer surroundings than the haruspex and its peers. Queen of knuckles. St. Paul’s rape trial. No news to report. Ray McKenzie: “A colostomy bag is its own reward.” Black rainforest glucose when. Images of food and flames gardening together in the North Atlantic. A walking bundle of problematic joy.

∞

February 10, 2016

Promulgating all over the floor. Cutting a skyhook out of the rapid suspicion. Solving the novel. All roborant plans for the enzyme’s future given its past. The interior life supervening without a threshold or a kempt boundary. Conifer wandering subaltern to the dreamscape. Who are your superheroes? Archaeologies of wit and circumstance. Kissed like Kierkegaard in someone else’s history. Just chuck Aquinas out the window.

Slapdash in the marketplace like knockoff wombs on sale. Don’t forget you’ll die. Skip out on the normal crowning. It’s just happening in your throat. Cold water lechery streaming down your arms. Neo-baroque like you read about in pictures. A theory of catatonic whiteness. God of the dead. Glabrous chainmail exactly as anticipated. In line for the big transformation.

I’ll have one art, please. What’s in the “space” between? Un peu d’absolu. Because there is no way out of time. An arithmetic spirit of the air. “Mist must have its correspondence in an emotion.” Growing heads into nowhere. Bartering in the holy realm of necropolitics. I asked for a snow cone, dammit. Zero sugar, zero calories, zero sugar, zero calories.

Who told the drainpipe to evacuate the type, leaving no witness? When you’re denuded of generalized algebraic datatypes, well. That’s another thing altogether. Like a swift change of case. Welcome to my heart o conspicuous devil. No language, new names. Children burying each other. Scalded by hyperauthenticity. The kettle spilling over into the subjectless turn. Filling it, slowly, with steam.

Concept and mystery both. As squishy is to serrated. Sacramento real estate listings. Light years of skin. Pitch of grape and grain. The city itself a kind of music. Staying agnostic to the coordinates. The beam in the king’s eye hideously unnoticed. Welcome to my death parlor. You designed it.

An armillary sphere digging into the flesh. Built to wonder at violet skies. Speak to all the absences. Bent into ascription. His daffodils. Mulberry nor interacting. I’m thinking of a number between death and rebirth. Go fish. The hatchet of welcoming history. A homemade flytrap.

Awash with the social levity of rethought animal depth. Stippling creation with parking meters. Harder than diamond but softer than quintessence. In the midst of the irrevocable act. Holding the thunder between two calamity hooks. The space within which God is free like a dead mouse. Like a stone in the shoe or a giant beetle under a frisbee. I can learn on the job.

Symbols of the flood / of errors. Penetrating to the core / of doctrine’s stealth. Ideology in the sippy cup. A communion of subjects. Continuing the sketched heterobiography. Semelfactivity as sudden as a puncture wound. We begin with the problem of form. Your interpretation as wellspring. Memory as eatery. This platter of months.

A plenitude of literary mands. Hilarious and annoying at the same time. God of perpetual surprises. High noon of charity. Desire into the depths of baseball. Bats flying out and away from the tree of death towards the power lines. To be given by adumbrations. Ich habe nichts Bestimmtes vor. Knowledge and work versus work and love. Look out your window and see what I mean: the entity, the system.

Perpetually perishing like the day of the well-wielded sledgehammer. All entities feel and have feelings. Cut deep into your instantaneity and never look back. Just kidding, that’s foolproof. Hackneyed stereotype of alligators. Flattery as far as fifty or sixty miles upstream, followed by the necessity of other tactics thereafter. Subordinate clauses wandering around like they’ve never been to a bishops’ conference before. Seeing someone you don’t know well without their glasses on. A festschrift in memory of Naomi Klein. Yes this phone is plugged in.

∞

January 10, 2016

Every answer has a correct question. Here’s one now. The guide burning our phrasebooks. How to shine in the public baths? Impossible to maintain a fire. Decide on a safeword of censure. Rudeness to the spirit. If determinism is so sweet then why not cut out the seeds and plant them in the corporate morning? Bringing to fruition the cyclone of temperate objects, up to and including eukaryotic beings? The travel is difficult, but rewarding, like flamboyant handwriting.

Fight through the clouds of early morning. Brisk as a dogfight. The stigmatic speaker practicing obedience through repetition and newer targets. The morass of human opinions in a trench coat. The Icelandic highlands unequivocally on their way out. Equality turpentine making answers float to an undisclosed location. Feeling the buzzing yet? Pagination scalds like a heartfelt vector. Distributivity’s the crux of her argument, naturally. Whose side are you on?

Yucky bananas, that’s who. Didache/didrachma. Contumelious plaza of out-of-control exchange rates and interpersonal fuming. Healthful? Even the philosopher’s greatest contribution is usually metaphor. No idea what “dithyramb” means. Won’t google it. Won’t even think about googling it. Papier-mâché accumulating gently against the side of the sleeping form. There was a theme and then it stopped.

Haecceity as personhood! Strung out into too many books. Quite literally subatomic. Clement wastebaskets know what to do with that idea. Revelry falling backwards, toppling the entire conga line.
Reapply every two hours. Painting a mattress obliquely, with lettering. A malachite portal not alone in the photograph. Take the charts, make an atlas, then check if it’s maximal. Was that too harsh?

The Omega Point approaching like a brick in a Bundt cake. “The navigator, celestial.” Most quotes unattributed but that’s the exception proves the rule. It’s Liz Waldner. Quoting Camille Rankine next. (I hit a promulgating snag and am sad.) “This is a brief malfunction.” Telling the wind that, seeing what it says back. A fallen tree or a gentle breeze. Or defeated texts, conspicuously not in tercets.

Sluggish schizophrenia. Hail, inner mechanism, one hundred yards of dental floss! Truth at the bottom of a well, looking up. I, the basic manifester. Hiccuped the zero morpheme. The hitch of neighboring discourses at all predisposed. A sidelong tattoo roadway to West Egg. Handmade silence. The sonata of helping you dress. A garb, a surface, a blasphemed handrail—something to hold on to though you’re supposed to let go.

All else an epilogue to alphabet. Far too much unscheduled green. Let’s talk like we’re both asteroids. Muscle memory mutinies. Words to describe tumors and Applebee’s. Itty bitty bronchioles. Queen of the moment. Configuring and calibrating the oceanic feeling. Whiskey soda fluorescent and damp. Like a soft and loving kidney punch.

What if I get a job? A heart wedged between the seats. A chef, a rag, verticality, and Henri Bergson. Don’t look at me like that. Even in heaven, God will still be an incomprehensible mystery. Consolamentum of the Cathars. The structure of the waters of death. Profane wilds of abundance and lack. A most bitter and most prophane enemy. WalMart in the rain.

The uselessness of prepositions for unknowing. I have to stay on the bus forever. Grace, chance, and the order of things. Hindering the nexus with quixotic sounds. The serious temptation of quietism. Baptism as ontological priority. Friendship in lieu of love. Everything equivocal but love and affirmation. Love as ridiculously indefensible first principle. And so with death.

Space hardens processes. Incendiary constellation of names. A chthonic winter working backwards into new designs. Sometimes we can be stupid and evil. Mildly heretical toes in the sand. A blood-curdling affidavit. The universal mixtape crowned with ether wounds. Un rastro imborrable de luz. Love bombing whilst alive in the city. Totally forgot the question, ask again?

∞

DECEMBER 10, 2015

“Crucifixion,” embarrassing. To not make a single sound in the fixity of the poem. Abyssal tinctures of feeling. Who is poetry? I forgot. Scribe first. Then everything else wades away, toward futurity. What else is there to try? A stone in the shoe is unfollowable. Just ask Thorkild Grosbøll.

The domain of murderous intent. Completely unincisive. Launched forth deep into the world like an unwanted intravenous stalagmite. Hissing barking témoignage through tears and heavy sobs. Humiliation as climate, intermediary but diffident, clothed but clean. Haranguing the vital colors with morning thoughts. A perfunctory toothbrush. Heady reversals rethrown through bile and aspic with muted indifference. Reverb of love. Her covalent truth like a brash silhouette submerged in oaken laughter.

The thief, awake. We have a field theory for that. Clandestine fusion in the heart of a star that warns you. Blackest night. Unimpressive chromatography. A simple plan held up against gas giants for transparency. Contraband hidden unsuccessfully in sacred books. A humble cave pawed out of the clay with sweat and noises. Chaotic sand that no one asks about. This is merely standard pressure.

A fence unknown with rain. Sitting and gazing into the Eye for hours. Clusterfuck dialogue with designs on reconciliation. Mystery play of horse breath desperately leaning into the covenant. Quantum computing with needle and thread. Step back off the ledge of mechanics. Into and above the primordial depiction, abashed fruit. Colonial plots tacitly endorsed. Gravestones with pictures and no words. The gravestones of ideas.

Horses, still? Rubbing two books together and hoping for grain. Double slit experience. Coughing into nectar. Ramrod straight. Clocked the filament at over forty trillion moonbeams in aggregate. Senate sunflowers in the grammar. Prophesied dustbin floundering around the corner from weightier occasions. Fond like a dexterity contest. Beleaguered in the waves.

New midnight, sharp windows. A boiling adept nigh in microbiology. Duplicitous sovereignty is completely off the table. Fine kenotic depth. Altruistic shadowing in the late branches. Filigree elsewhere. Loose tatters of flesh left free to hang. Within a cautious decision of the animal. Caught under harrowing rapids. The voice telling you (in no uncertain terms) to turn the stage.

Consistency of a ball of twine. Airports backed up with effluvia and crying. Skipped heartbeat to the radix. Mythopoesis. Oh. Glad I missed the big event. A catechetical hole. One more in the rainforest beside another one scuttling into flooded revisionisms. Oh we’ve positively hit on something. Storyboard it and get back to lithographs, fortune, and tossed hair.

Identity vulgate, corrugated moonscapes. Corporal dichotomy played out into splinters in the infant’s arms. The necrophilous person looking on. Sylvia Wynter? Negative capability prayer? To be worthy of neither option as praxeological gift. To receive them both anyway. No indeterminacy in supplication. It wasn’t even necessary. Can we start over?

We have only changed horses. Queen of the sciences. Holy to the dogs. Sacral to swine. Note that this is not an opportunity. You dangerous inkblot. Routing number for hire. Are you tired yet? Want to join the petting zoo? Make a pretty hyper object

I don’t have a strong head. The quintessence of amphiboly. Offshore drilling in the future of words. Climate variations evading the ledger. A communitarian upbringing. Your homotopy equivalence is showing. The rover running out of time. Communication limits. One structure on top of another. See how they love one another.

∞

NOVEMBER 10, 2015

“Too slow to act” is a fracture riffed debtward by inveterate sloth. Discomfiture thing. Inchoate name. Heard the branches whistling diamond under aegis of incomprehension. Income prehension. Language in the pharmacy. Carved settlement pushback like grapeshot. Belonging. A rectilinear tongue. Arms so tight they stretch across the waiting.

Fugitive barroom the set of something else with actors. The regular script fell into the ocean and replacement’s a way. Director of photography’s hanging up old plaques embossed with real names. A telephone call of pure waiting. Nursing rifles closed into boxes prior to assembly. Gangplanks foretold like a crutch threat on silent. An ornate text of dissuasion. Bent forward in the posture of liquefaction. Coins of the dead. Ardor reborn.

A catastrophic noise before you hear. Act like you’ve never been around acid. A claw committing heinous acts had to be withdrawn. Subtle flurry of moral turpitude. Signposts swollen with breakneck reef. Differential climate relations underwrite fiscal policy. Wet behind the ears like David. A libretto of crystallized tears on a statuette. Linear time. Ruinous bells.

Apostate’s frenzied stare over fresh melon. The state wandering into a barren grove before rain. Labor strangled like a gyroscope ready for anything. An actor’s irregular heartbeat pulsing through galaxies. Fertility god vacuum treatment. Cosmology of the wind tunnel and what makes it through undiced. Harboring suspicion without a prescription while the permit application is being. Processed. Minerals forced by raw chance into oceanic shapes unrecognized by passersby. The city a spherical fortress against which lean angry categories are calling for revolution.

Sex like a calm giraffe. This is going to be on the test. Beaten by cul-de-sacs to within an inch of your life. Mellow as sandpaper misplaced in a truck bed. Hyperplanetary indifference managing the stage without assistance. Callbacks were before time began. The orange is suspended from the catwalk, swinging. Love scene. The demand curve of a Veblen good. Oxymorons slipped slyly into the curriculum beneath everyone’s notice.

Not desperate or anything. I cloaked away in the lead role, singing. Arbiters can’t give an appropriate account of time. Metaphysics draped over the set pieces. An avalanche feeling enveloped in whale lines. Sorry there’s not more to discuss here. Exhaustion process of a chamber drama wrapped in unkempt sentiment. Floral weather against the highland winds. Not sure when love will hear you again. Clouded deaf ears.

A premier riddled with thoughts. Harping on beginnings. Unto being. Foreshortened seascape the color of death escaping from mythology, running to the hills. Two to three hundred pearls lying in wait. Patrolling the neighborhood. Terrified of valor. The same gun in a different mouth. Stage left is no place to be. Nor stage right.

My mask as belt, not coffin. Surgical rivers flowing through dynamited rock. Pinpointing the trees least accustomed to servitude. Dripping a soliloquy from above the rafters. You told me a formulaic joke and I cried. PV=nRT, unusually. Whispering your shrewdness under the invisibility cloak. Patent pending. Sold at cost. Holding out for the next big breaker.

Get out here. A cue like baking bread. Enacted flow after the overture. A sickened swell of uncoordinated music. Fuck you for having a word like “dune.” Your ietsism is showing. Picking out all the positions with “nihilism” in them, even if they’re technical and unimportant. Barracuda ontology. What was that name again? Which scene?

Classical verdigris owes itself across weekends into color. Painted the whole stage that ill shade. Theatrics on the sound board mixed like a gargantuan mistake. Clipping orbitals with supreme justification. A prayer caught up in the wildly confused prophecies of communicative language. The fundamental relation between all properties. A proper class. Hurts to have a model just step on your throat like that. Windowless rooms. Go over it again, once more, with the house lights down.?

Share this:

Leave a comment Cancel reply