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“…of shooting stars and brightness.

last poems of

thomas lowe taylor

poems posted to http://pganickz.livejournal.com


between february 27.2009 and august 01.2009

chalk-editions http://chalk-editions.co.cc

February 27, 2009

SELF-STORAGE UNIT

A suit of clothes hung on the wall, only an imprinted shadow-print after a


fire, clothes hung the wall with its absence, signs of water having also left
some dripping presence on the wall of flame restarted by your silence on
the morning of evening. Here you are in a stupor, two flats down from
the town itself… eye’d like a garden spot in retreat, you fly into the
vapors of the words themselves overlaid with mother of pearl and the
compliant heavens carrying us forward at the speed of life itself in reds
and blues and browns along the floor of light upon which we dance our
turns and spasms for the rising energies like pheasants running from the
chasing dog while the beige colored mama sneaks up the hill into the
growth hanging from the trees onto the mat of needles which makes her
slink into her background camouflage

Raised from the water arisen tachonomy of light itself a raising too in the
doldrums of peace itself does the water fall away into an embrace of
pressure to survive into the next evolution of what you might become on
the journey of your journey, samurai high-life resonates in the hallways
filled with smoke and perfume and mirrors…. The tiny bird by the high
window beating like a hummingbird which it wasn’t, coaxed repeatedly
with the broom until finally it seemed to give up or relax and then was
moved to the open doorway and the broom shaken a bit and the bird
flying away into the trees near the house, safe in its rescue and charm

out on the porch in the full moon’s sense of completion, three geese flew
along and over the canal which runs behind the house making a kind of
reverie to the moment in the dark in the cool on the front porch…. High
up in the old trees near the park at the end of the long road where few
houses have managed to survive, high up in the trees on their limbs
themselves, ferns are starting to grow into the sunlight which churns
through the upper reaches like magical birds, the ferns some are rather
large, up about thirty feet, others no doubt higher….

The new tree which grows from the cutoff stump of its predecessor, the
new tree now about twenty feet tall…. These are some of the signs made
felt along the road….

SUMMIT-TREE

Luxor hazelnut unrestrained vigor from the cellular walls inside time itself
where no man sings. Aloud to the skies ‘luxury apartments for rent’ no
master products remitted under hand and arm signals against at the
sunset horizon online and everywhere’s else in victu. Narks the matter
inside what was left here on the page wriggling no where the same sun
glowing under a column of numbers now, now.

I hear hazelnuts lounging in the far distance, maybe the near ~~ their
fall rotundity demeanors no insignificant allowances for dust or mites;
hear the fog lifts to no uncertain terms, turning you into doubt itself.
Here’s the nugget itself, sounding out in the sentence with gusto, with
guts ~~ the remarkable fall of hundreds from the laundry lists distributed
at the market daily or not. Time enough.

The more recent hazelnuts declined amnesty and then carried on


intensely enough to pardon the outers from their non-reminiscences;
here was the new wafer, waiting at the fringes of the circle for there to be
no more hot sauce on the sides of the knife to burn your lips and call the
new day a waiting game for people who have difficulty walking or even
seeing their shoes enlarge into the span.

“Hazelnut my ass” the cry went up into the rafters, afloat as they were;
this was no time to dally or flaunt…. Inside doubt was the answer we’d
all occluded for, hastening our own time-in-grade for the soldiers in the
army of none. The cleaner read something in the tealeaves on the door,
splattered upside down in a mimicry of the last hostages to leave the
plane in their long underwear.

The trees bare hazelnuts daily twisting in the rain, here where the dirt
under the trees is vacuumed clean by a big machine you can ride, not a
sweeper exactly, but rather a grown affair not unlike a rider mower, but
with large inflatable and fillable bags mounted on the rear of the machine
between the two rear wheels; now, when there’s more than you can
imagine do the nuts themselves pop and ride.

Calls retreat a newer nomenclature from which this pool this air no
masters aside the chrome horse he put it names the lighter hues the
northern end of what retreated in the first place a cal a destiny a future
chasm seaming shut inside time itself is held at the arm of length the wet
dirt floors all polished smooth by the bare feet of the other escapees
which reminds us of the eternity of the hazelnut.
March 11, 2009

1. Buff canal

A few more days til the rock star appears “Boef” his named salience
peals the light away

marks your eyesore a framing fane Tom Jones’ nuts in a vice, squeaky
clean Came the finality endorfed within struts or claim Your heart a
beading entity within fore-whomed

A nude eel, a fashioned semen, clarified butter Arts my slimy side a


newer dream to come aside

He claims aside no thicket ticket clams overside The mother fucker of


light itself

2. Inquires after nothing

Your allowance penetrated my being Left fibers intact, implied that the
rescue was false

‘no hope before mournings’ was the line following (I’m not talking.)

thus lamer tred, the fo’cstle fermented, oversubscribed like a presents,


floored into vivid documentary channels

the well-known tula-man… hits, and then succumbs to silence I’ve


called you forward (to no avail…) a former tune

Hear, the master-dine, your slimy, unattractive silence balloons This way,
that, a wait-station. This airy due, unformalized or

Your needs and butts. I hear the sudden, sinking fermentations Deep
within my plasms, the wet dusk of being at all…
March 14, 2009

AT THE MARGIN.

Rain stains the window in darkness pinging hard against the glass while
swirls of energy rail over the roof like sponges at dawn claiming the
night’s heirs from their own songs, the coastal dunes reline these grassy
knolls into their own eminent strains of being

shoreline distances between nothing and nothing else remain strong


along the tide’s lining of the hollow core of the margin’s lane among trees
on their sides and piles of vegetable ruin where the open hours reside
inside green and blue again.

I’d clung along these leftovers at the edge of this plain next to
another plane of gray against a gray which is not the same, but moving
forward among what’s been left by a continent straining toward
completion in hourly dimensions leaning left and forward in one motion.

You’d been the page itself whose words were grains of sand
winding among untitled monuments the wind whistling against your
face, stinging rows incite the sense of standing in the face of
nothing which is the nature of your sign and gesture along the arcade.

Outside, chaos un-tamed by what’s been the light source itself, song,
movement and time collide against the tides moving one on one as
unconverted remains strewn beside tire prints from big trucks as the feet
of angels trail beside the forward constancy of motion

impel thought in its similarities toward a recognition of air and color


specific in the charges laid against unknown substances striking your face
and hands like unwelcome dinners set around the table with no one in
mind and then abandoned.

You become me in this haven the elements deny themselves, disorder


remaining in its own destination from the center blazing inside itself like a
sign and outpost of the known into location and faction torn from time
and the space it has.. A series of accidents, a series of mistakes belittle
your witness what cascades across the margin’s opening in the darkness
of the storm and call you down into the origin of a safety you think
surrounds your partitions, called by the name you give doubt in its own
term.
This wound betrays your stasis, walls moving in the sand beneath your
feet seem pulled down into the water, clams swimming beneath your
stains of sand, billowing inert forces penetrating light-- the door is open
and calls to you entering into your own destiny.

This is the hour at hand, the blast from the black edge of the
world inhabits your own unknown hand, hesitant on these keys at best
believing you stand and hold what’s been ignored too long, a sentinel at
the peak of the house relives your building and song,

and lets the dizzying spin of thought’s storm become a wandering


tide the loom and weft of the woven ride this hour gives in
claiming anchor and palm, their own distances rising throughout the
wind’s hours thrown among the rolling dream which comes against your
thoughts; a broad gust reams the window tight against its frame and
juncture in the night’s beating streams and shores flat and firm along the
way, scheming in between what’s known and what’s not and then
dreamed away too soon to leave and too late to cry a silent prayer into
the graying sign
March 17, 2009

from HOMAGES

162 Roped-out, pooled, the specific desig- nates remove or peel, then
term,
loop to sell, sail, elope to sentences. scatter throughout & mark, often
among the room & skip, sell & firm, the score of, line of, anterior
profound, the
leap to skip, heart, aloof or told, then mark to sell, sail, love’s eye
begun, termed, then, at score & set, the shades belong or turn, prose,
red shapes red their rooms and sail again their dogs or ropes also
begun there & there, looped, astir her red heart bloomed but
then alone the day & ript-out, salt, roam of light’s duties, lost at
song & term held aloof or wrapt astir & sent, then, light’s blue
self and calm : we hold along the way, roomed out & slippt, as
a worn and termed room becomes again becomes, sail, sail, sail.

163 Day to arrive, leafed at the foot, seen, journal of time’s


remembrance, or old.
Your sleep might fit, but hold, to, to open parts unwound, again, & blue
airs wept. We saw the eagle, even here, heard his shrill & even tone,
winged
out & called. Not today, though, but sloops & centers, the sun’s mood
of, her :
and see, too, how they hold, art of line & grace, the trees speak, birds
of the earth’s feathering, yoked, pushed around, then, the heart’s
anchoring
in place or half among the distances, pillowed into resonance, spoke to
what
is firm & distant, seed begun, room of the air’s beginning, light spent at
open doors, yr mouth receives, too, at song & line, no manacle to doubt,
a
simple resonance unwound, force to air simplicity, fold enfold, air to life,
a
breath away, and set; hawk or pin, the roof is plain & empty, send the
day, along.
April 05, 2009

Reach

alarming sentries remote denote in their harfier splume and tango. Yours
at the hedge removes no collar into this ream of doubt – this is the due,
the portico calm emoting from your disks; now’s the hour goes the song
‘from far across the sea’ – I love you in times of war where the colors red
and blue dork the limno into submissive airs, heirs, our new time
beckons. Where else speak but here? calls perfume another illusion of
time and space, likened to the worst and the best of times. Walla to you,
too. Li,kened to her perfidy and shame

face deal sponto lutes stucco adobe dude erect poles vengo as admires
yoks not effendo inside boomer strokes lining cover shed light no masks
hear the strum one another leaves the room across a curse across
repeated many times head last pole gear light names of names the flots
the school crossing not remanded blues and names and bass strokes on
the speaker hears a name looting the air inside what you are now that it
slights

pust gram tacit among their moons bellowed argle adrunt the looting fen,
hair up to, these arcs of folks out of time, shelves the broken liners pool
to the headier blows their hours at hand reaching reaching into the ‘stuff’
for the new juice, alert to all chasms charm the beast from your doorstep
again the tides have broken drumlike in the distance; hears the looter
psalm with easter approaching would mark the rising of ‘born again
again’ was not so much the scale on the window with all hands on deck
as your name riven and spuntered into the classier air

healded spinky knocks the hour from under you. Declarative monuments
are not asided but revealed in their fortitude and palm. Lucks out. Spin
into lager folds rum recalled. This air folds the new air around you. Push
and shove in the hall for tunes ate the airs. A flooded liner of doubt
fumes at the school-door bully narcs you out. She picked up my pipe
from the floor – regret over lost things. Stupidity and willingness elude
porkers. This air reclings through like tough and scuough, replinted from
the nuker dee but this air naming you one after the other….

dry master at your door….the loser ray fluxus nomenclature without


code….lights the hours now and then. ….your day on the wring fingers….
They’re far beyond me…. This joy of belonging somewhere not recluded….
The open sentence calls willingly from along the way you silly man….
These particular plums were not melded nor affirmed to stretch…. Roofs
the doors and windows with plaster…. The small animals scooting under
the house…. Arranging to have your best friend…. Oven timing a critical
nuts are piled again….

and like willingly tells the harvest not to squirm or pressure them at all
but rise arise into light and time and other one liners cling and posture
their imitations of what is there to be witnessed or streamed into the
sphere-sphere not unincluded but left on the table of love for another
hand on the spine of forgiveness leaves you clinging to the raft of desire
within what called you forth in the first place unrelenting strife of the
electric current pooling through your veins with all these repositories of
energy right now the beach 4.09

Leave a c
April 16, 2009

Rancorous deceit

Rancorous deceit, the usual; no one is really surprised, more ‘business as


usual’ than a fluxus on the doormat of fate, Frank Zappa suing imitators
from the beyond…. O wel, it’s a living, stuck on the floor like hazmat
chickle-nut glue and screw assembly on the cabs by the back door -- lay
a proper, heald her plinty, next and then some culls the spot and cinder
on the mix outside unreplenished yet still an artifact in memory the name
of which

What came across, maybe on the slower itself, no mere matter in


disguise but the real thing hidden under itself; the nocturne of emissions
was in full bloom, flowering all over the place in a frenzy of transmission.
Before the day no music mattered in the scloset behind the door. It was
a sullen refuse claimed in the hours left behind in the hurry to leave.
Impersonal. You might say.

Tempest by a siege implanted on the fore dune’s empty horizon on the


beachgrass linear to the edge of the light and then infused beyond
destiny without pity. No reply on winds of change which lie against the
noon you recall just after or sentenced. No pliance. No astir on the
leavens but dressed and calm atide the loomer spec which allays all noise
yet becomes what covers the ground without sensation

Eyecare. Earmarks made a move and slid inside for a score, then relaxed
on the side with a honey on his arms and twisters running on the
overside, like doubt. They heaved. What’s to be done in the alarum of
eveningtide spread around the rising rushes one on one with the causes
and their particular avenues toward the known; as has, so let in the
distances of being which carry the silence of the surrounding spaces into
the known….

.
Like pulling teeth from your skin where they’ve suddenly pushed through
from another inside you never dreamed of as if all dreams were not the
same, then left on the window to dry-out into their more marketable
presences. You’d clear the mineshaft with rocks and stones rising from
the carved silences below you on another floor from the teeth themselves
arrived in the late afternoon with a smile and a flounder in the sun’s airs.

At a loss for words, the tangled web receipts you backwards into the
foundations of speech itself glowing from a perimeter and then slowing to
a halt. New hours release the signs into air itself removed yet improved
inside the liners also cull the air of its magnificence which is melted or
furthered from description to event as if some allowed principles were
flouted or expresso’d from beyond the fringe you energy up to it…

how you Are is up for grabs – the crowd at the funeral was definitely
subdued with love for the departed guy, a little stunned with his
remaining immediacy from beyond the fringe. Like the ship going down
with all hands raised in recognition for the journey they have against the
tides and seasons in their disregard for our own urgency which looms
against the sky at all times and in all places as we drag our bodysacks
along the trail.

the beach, 4.09


April 20.2009

stretch test

pullet bullet, the fractional place of palacial vistas unwound tight calls out
to envelop your specific detail remiss to charter polarity ensigns your hot
dealie into submission and then some latent fingertips respond to the
piano at recluse and time for the other allowances are not remarked nor
held aside in lesser dominions clear the house of all interlopers have
seized the day away from you now restricted movement passports

venue closer health issues knocked out a color wasn’t here at all thesis
droop the light is complex enough to read I’m your knocker off base
kilting short songs on the pipes balls in the air rotund yet abandoned to
the forester’s calm demeanor arks you tight to the wall as if not
mentioned climax of grid stations rays of buds entrained without pity as if
no mere schema were approached from where began fair venue closer
stains the relevant ice

too many harps are sudden barenaked ladies on the rumor stilling your
heart’s woe betimes the light is curled improperly straight ahead climbing
ironies detail the default hours into their stasis and palm how you are
driven toward various precipices holding your dick intended no master on
the means of what’s left for the others to see again holds them stupor
than knot is curled within the plank of woe men’s tiny hearts beating
loudly

moves across gander heightened alert onside demeanor curls empty


knots reliquary into morning’s stillness laughter on the moors recalls your
own details on the face offers now require presence and a passport for
exclusion lingers now and then a wholeness or lasting effort clings aside
no meter in your mists arriving now and then you stop and sing again
and again around the corner of this elongated couplet stretching out into
the inky dark

.
quarter dollar narrative attached to coinage not unlike a restaurant
without food but great menus turned face down on the table unwilling
deceit colors the months ahead are not abandoned yet skilled within
tastes as if you were not allowed to enter here any more you cling to the
siding as it blows off overhead no measures have been taken up by the
names and seasons you carry beside you the moment the clear closure of
segments again

longer sousers cling wrap allowed silence puts out sidereal loot craps lost
within hearing over rates the sound of noise itself a golden parachute
approached and sudden not the lines you’d half expected from rubber
hangers soft penetrando the right gesticle eaks your dormer dues
fluxuant or knotty in her laps and seasons culls the red yellow disks to
the drink and beyond is soon enough to never end clicking on within the
hours and days

the beach its willing statutes to allow consent or option seals the doorway
halfway knocks the lighter hues as higher into the light above is
mentioned again in the old books nor heard from where this lingering tide
bespeaks your hours now and again you’ve held me in the darkness of
my lonity from other issues the carnival or wren clings the heads gruel
and fortune of the others in their lines and reasons, heavyset,
internalized, looser skies

the beach 09
March 21.2009

saves laser

saves laser dues beyond to the max hears furniture destiny clinging
without sensation is the norm on what’s lost against the tides, like a
further, like a nougat density teething tight to the norm has your
attention now in repeated tides are not met within hearing or what’s been
abandoned from the natural and the colorful respite your answer clues at
lasting nights are not foretold or even left aside but held the bummer
walk is losing now

i’ve not missed mass nor carpal engrams twisted around your finger like a
girl or not then left aside to these mists of unknown things have not
been asided nor split into parts are not a rankle left unturned, nor here
internal rhymes are not flagged nor even pulled into the rising terms are
left unsaid or not spent cartoons on the floor like you should’ve done in
the fires place has your history kept inside words are not lent nor stabled
but held

the due. helps at the term and then let astir is not implication but doubt
imploded from hazel eyes and skin relinquished your other attention as
done or flung, the outer skills are not herded nor even schemed as if not
reminds the less-tense hours are remanded clay like muddy dirt then
squeezed or folded then cooked at high woodfire temperatures was a
dream in the wilderness of the ancestors piling up their utensils and
schemata is not left

his is, then wept, nor left aside in the hurry to leave the scene of life itself
was my mother trying to hurl over the parapet yet falling back through
the picture window slider into the room, a failed attempt yet one not
ignored nor even made known in the less internal buds were laid out in a
baggie to dry to the air before smoking in the little tiny glass pipe you
found across the river in a salient hour of recall and reminiscence was not
remembered

.
hours of marching music played loudly by a brass band inside your head
– an error into morning’s disregard and sorrow how the airs revolve and
terminal your heated schools are let among natives or foreign agents of
the spatula and scissor-kick mentality of poems in their naked
monuments are still the sign of the times whereas not remembered
senility from the houses on the street unoccupied unafforded and
unoffended from the hours here

defilade at the hoses coiled inside the doorway sprung from billboards
unintended layers were posted and then kept aside as if not central nor
folded was columnar yet stiff to the touch on earth yet not besided into
the hours kept apart from the minutes and seconds to preserve their
purity and sense of purpose is hardly the way to go but not included here
to the sense of your own ownership is not let go nor made drunk in the
evenings again now

you know the rest. here the day slips inside and claims its own space for
imitation and lesser stories from the borderland are still the stranger tales
you’ve measured for length and breath in the claimants history not
removed from the terms you’ve defined as truth to the dominion and
containment to the other lines you’ve met here and there in the darkness
of your own history as it unwinds inside you to remain the same again
and here

the beach
May 30.2009

five poems

bluesmoke

call’d hour our time resumes from what are not betimes, roast clue, the
format, unrelenting knot inhabits formal attributes resists bluejean or cut
apart ,meat dish crawls inside brain cell, matters cool to the touch,
asided, portent asided humorous detail relining aparts lingo spiel leaning
outside makes a distant noise, clue and shiners plugging on the ground
now

yielded plinth

a forced stair looking ahead into here’s the doorway leaning nouns eyes
apart to the focus flooring is distant instructions clot the hair your own
timepiece clanking loud this air streaming loots parts again blue to the
sign’s ochre looms due harps the sudden opening is clues a slower tune
encompass and beware the loomer spinning again and stop as if not
monitor or precise to clear

heals newer toy car desktop population serene the the internal is not
spent nor clue but aloof to rheums the movie comes window opened to
rumors claiming dense their own parts laying and precise afar’d’d ricks
the plume its own demonstrations hover inside thought a reminisce
ekes doubt’s colors and not butcher and palm blood spilled by stapled-in
two by four plain is what’s remote nor clue to formal linings blue and read
and clean hours are hear the tunes becalmed oysters newt

*
it yield loose or termed hoses puny leaks at school birch fitting
incompleted houses grew fumes of memories not made at all alight and
final in the tempo clusters clears the summary as detail nor terms not
infernal nor absolute, but and calm affirms no muter in the clear dusk of
light the floors are not firm nor skates amore punta glorier splints floods
pushed aside not from details assumed proper lights to this beside you in
the dirt dark door duck

testicle stick

hopes & fears, unit to claim red dusks these few claims not met but
sailed into hopeless density mulls the hours in some porches blue and
green and said the hours not cool nor even spent areas map of dusky
tours the market sinks in tunes not swept hover larks belong tomb these
and those, allowed to climb and tune the lights into somewhere now
again is spoke the loom the loom and halts now

*
May 30.2009

five more poems

love nuts

dog shadow, in, that is, along porch to narrative implied paragraphs the
novel clings this air to terms colored spaces linear doves these astir your
paper criss-crossed blue lines are sacrificial eggs in boiling water hears
the rooms are knots and shine all of relevant and hoses flung outside
melons are not sandwich enough to call out from what’s not spoken out is
still implied in what’s neighborly enough clear out and clue infernal
rhymes into the day

comealong your eyes have binge polarity inside doubt nor distant locale
the party unfavorite claims the other dude recoils in piety or from it
now and then a portion remaindered on the ledge from whomsoever
seeketh the coils don’t lie slinky down speller checked by what’s unsaid a
common theme yesterday is started anew in each line not repeated nor
alarumed by the book you left on the doorway to foreign songs the
post nor spent by time reclined to hours inside the head

smudge

opening porches clean the sky nomenclature’s colorful density porks calm
derision the green onion of the clock resumes your own hedges
at memory flung like liking in the air around you comes between us nor
more enthralled whereas some escape called for yet not verb or noun
inside time remoted hours cling from top to ark the slow mood inside the
layers are nearly mode operantus i’ve halted inside your holy reminisce
asided narks removed from the action by your leave, levee

*
“i’m not heanded” the recompense absolute still not seen is within
distance and arrival like a person in the photograph walking round the
sound some sudden interruption of silence from the gourd itself another
newer instance of someone calling in the dark for removal and stain on
the ceiling of your mind is not said nor claimed lodecin from next to
nothing is affirmed nor proper in the mood of evening where you left the
paper growing inside me

left or send her

plummo arras megistated left not out salils eclipso withink nor pommer
stil the lesto imagined no blamed attached from hest nor pinter on the
musk istle suffix arc the pony-wall assisted living inside tomescent ire nor
pleasure coals their humor afforded blues and pinks at the table flung out
of distant regions to the hour of the open door is still open at your heard
armed true to speak, easy off

June.1.2009

four poems

moreover
asided out from heavier destinies lurks a passion from the reach of time
as you are and in these remarks finding new pressure into the outworld
of the regions of pasture and action on the face of it plastered into more
remote ankles are forded like a mean lurks again the nomenclature
wrapped as if to find turtle and smooth the linear porkpie rumor and
strange enveloped arks the light remove smoothe align toward special
marks

fifteen stars

the lurx nay pinto in the lumor screen now cails or inter lapidary hosed
the airs newts efforta nox tumor parts ahead nor pin’er dude too far
among, the empty clutter suffice and rain near portico and claim the
trophy utter along the side of the road where you popped the leaks, or far
offen lingo schools you door where i’m atom becalmed linkers now
pool play far eminisce the lighter boles remove a caller in the night
hearing the hiss on the wire

pufferbilly your own requirements unregistered plaints within the


frame of wisdom you inherited as of the lingering tides not recompense
but stirred among your ashes within the pools of cowl stores affirmed
pressure keeping alive these arts of science pooled like a
prophecy mingling inner secrets from their opposition made remit and
sane the foreknown anchor what’s the jungle fever surrounding myself in
the dunes of favor themselves recluded to an uneven bar upon which to
alleviate all

incur path

lingers aside the pond no remembering however blank the forester’s


claims are derided in the television ark as if you’d cleaned clocks for a
living alone longer than that these are along the waving arms are
petals descent from what’s allowed inside time no pity or remonstrance
from the history of literature a comment or cemented alliance among
these strangers of contest from the linear polarity no mention of the
closeted pet you’ve alerted to my glowing hide and seek pleasures were
those alided from video monsters in the closet

*
June 14.2009

four poems

moreover
asided out from heavier destinies lurks a passion from the reach of time
as you are and in these remarks finding new pressure into the outworld
of the regions of pasture and action on the face of it plastered into more
remote ankles are forded like a mean lurks again the nomenclature
wrapped as if to find turtle and smooth the linear porkpie rumor and
strange enveloped arks the light remove smoothe align toward special
marks

fifteen stars

the lurx nay pinto in the lumor screen now cails or inter lapidary hosed
the airs newts efforta nox tumor parts ahead nor pin’er dude too far
among, the empty clutter suffice and rain near portico and claim the
trophy utter along the side of the road where you popped the leaks, or far
offen lingo schools you door where i’m atom becalmed linkers now
pool play far eminisce the lighter boles remove a caller in the night
hearing the hiss on the wire

pufferbilly your own requirements unregistered plaints within the


frame of wisdom you inherited as of the lingering tides not recompense
but stirred among your ashes within the pools of cowl stores affirmed
pressure keeping alive these arts of science pooled like a
prophecy mingling inner secrets from their opposition made remit and
sane the foreknown anchor what’s the jungle fever surrounding myself in
the dunes of favor themselves recluded to an uneven bar upon which to
alleviate all

*
incur path

lingers aside the pond no remembering however blank the forester’s


claims are derided in the television ark as if you’d cleaned clocks for a
living alone longer than that these are along the waving arms are
petals descent from what’s allowed inside time no pity or remonstrance
from the history of literature a comment or cemented alliance among
these strangers of contest from the linear polarity no mention of the
closeted pet you’ve alerted to my glowing hide and seek pleasures were
those alided from video monsters in the closet

*
June 14.2009

four poems

duct-a-phone

i’d smoothed unspoken densities into a new renoun and sentence from he
outer attributes in through the tiny wire and further toward newly
towering reefs and pleasures which stood at century and palm for the
later floods altered by a former voice which finds hourly relief in simpler
forms adopted from the lesser rotunde at slur and palm she rises into an
unfamiliar musk which blossoms forward from the leaning hours as if
you’d called my name again in the dark signs

cusp unknown unremarkable coalitions sprout their claims arguable


connections spread linear charms are kept afloat in tune with what’s
spoken at scissors flung outer mites click against the new tides stroking
the lighter miles herein after the spoken claims are met inside his fat cells
reunite the foreign stamens yodel at their hemisphere you’d made your
own insensate turmoil a fathom of the dark side in your own lessons
marked out like lumens

resource dorks

some lung tissue missing – a gasp goes up, recluded tempo of video
dramaturgy chokes up into the nether region of scopic sneaking a look at
the other realm you’ve only imagined in schools and books on the shelf, a
lesson you don’t know either, and that’s just fine. spiel the dusker booze,
face the longer thyme as has so let the formula for whatever makes the
simple people so in their unremarkableness clinging and calling out for
another chance hour

*
leets plesr doam

“uhv kumpet”—sd eid haddam, his announce, or eyed had’em, southern


boy. this narrative of momento heals you down straight miss- ive into
monuments, but laden his brother a myth of centuries, er, sentries all
lain aside for tunate hedgerows, the mist, in the mist of whats infernal or
opposed at least by the gnome of your own name upside down motives
will not relieve your destiny from its absolute in the name of what you are
tonight baby

*
June 16.2009

two poems

el crustado

form along coastal waterways the foam of it clinging underside yr bright


light inhabited in the wave like a dome or a rock on the intensity of the
hours you left behind in the hurry to leave at all and make an island of
intention and replication of the chosen one into your own destination
from the music on the radio falling through your heart’s silence a harp or
sudden an hour at your lights

associate of withdrawal

beyond the clamor of dignity where the dark ore gleams in the night like
an armor or a reflection from the obsession you have with me as well
as others in your group have apparently signed off from the tangible
presence they exaggerated into an hourglass turning in the light on the
shelf below your own attempts at formulation and disregard, how calm is
the dark road of night when you’ve stepped out of the car and make your
way to where the road has to go and what it tells you

*
June 18.2009

two poems

redundant spasms

heare the malignant hours tweaking inner claims on your attention from
what’s been strewn along the shore without claim or pity for the unknown
substances who roam the hours among your body cells like a mounting
pleasure or a forgiven insult on the tunes of the day among your foreign
substances unmet spontaneous forays into the non and beyond out into
the sunset claiming its bit of space for a new mountain thrushed among
its own distances in the distal figure come again among the dreams you
might have had in the time you had

the latent hours

first off the rack, stuttering among hedgerows, a choice becomes your
long-standing position on the shape of things deep among your memories
and instances of self doubt and pressure among what’s been left behind
in the hurry to leave by those intrepid souls who claim our attention who
come too soon to know and too late to say what’s what and who’s whom
among the wandering souls who monitor the light among us and come
too soon to claim our attitudes are not unreasonable claims made on our
attention by what is there as definition and repose in their particular
density and truth

*
June 23.2009

two poems

nur malaki

across the bread missouri came the four hundred in their cloaked
memories which would not matter any way at all in the sheen of thangs
which palates your place without any announcements nor pity in restraint
calls the flux you see in any climate these hours would pay dearly for
sunlight and portion their own control onto plates and seasons for the
disregarded on your own hours to identify the empty shores you sweep in
next to the girl on the greyhound so many times you don’t any longer
remember who was who and what may or may not have happened in
your mind

nor malag-kie

snore yore photos tight unasided tarps clark th hour here the thrust
from late in the day reclaims your distant aims and forces lines emergent
properties within chants you’d climed the air-stare holds attention at the
lesser dues and seasons on the wane already passed tents are not
renewed but foamed like starling hours from the starting line
inside memory’s insufficient landscape of ancient cities in specific detail
where you’d plodded along the trail with music on the latent evidence
portrayed in the medium rare destiny you’d called into play with an
uneven hand displayed for all to see

*
June 25.2009

poem

crossing, closing

dull ache what is real besides dinner on the plate or a good


ride in the darkness rising between sunset and sunset as if
no other mattered on the face of it rising through flames in
a posse of attributes are let beside the memory of ‘group’
a distant repose on the closing of the door between now and
then a subtant or redux allowable on the stories told from
here to there another crossed-out utterance modified here
at the least of it smothered or made plain in the days now
a couplet’s reign of error culls the day’s overhead into a
spasm or a passage between equal stations on alert today

*
June 26,2009

poem

passion’s entry

whose simpler, singular terms explore nor eloquence


from disaster realmed within the airs left behind in a
sudden whoosh of wind aimed outward into the heavens
like a departed scion on the time of light itself unremoved
from lesser dreams are kept aside by no means uncertain
and unrestrained by any song and dance man would under
-stand from the sidewise repositioning of the gaunt out
sider spun onto the flame of attention by instructions
from the inside of words themselves carry the day out
from what’s been unintended all along the watchtower

*
June 27.2009

poem

heald’s web

nor pinto recluse did not come again into the realm of
doubt upended liking dusk nor attributes of calm are as
you’re on top of this magnificence undeterred by any
lines lighting up the sky from what’s been ignored too
long in the empty airs we called our own destiny and
wrapped inside the action itself into a newer time than
has been there before now to mark the hours meant or
held infirm by the hours in the pen we’ve spent apart
and let burn on the angles of retreat as if you’d started
from the lesser demons called blue and green against

*
June 28.2009

poem

we came unfurled

flapping in the wind of our desires and unspoken hours


therein some defense weighs in at the looser gallop from
station to attention on the husk of renewable presences
at the loner sign upended and made clear of the old and
yet a harvest of the newer rhymes we’d declared modern
in our own lag-time of newer hopes and dreams from a
lesser god diminished and made personal on these hours
we’ve come together in this mass of destinies cracking
these days into more malleable portions of control
yet marking these trails with our particular linearity
June 29.2009

poem

rain’s plein

your own endless ditch to hoe and row into infinite


gardens on the highway in the planter strip between
lanes of fast-moving stars of stage and screen inside
their own doubts over the disposition of product into
resident castles wherein extra capacity flows from a
destitute climate onto roof gardens and other dirtier
elements of renewal and feeding from one animal to
another entrapment within the confines of reading
words and phrases into their rhythmic counterparts
on the day’s celebrations revealed in song and dance

*
June 30.2009

poem

that which arose

he didn’t paysage he new in favor of some ‘other’


that much is certain and how the function of memory
seemed more to imprison in linkages to ones failure,
one’s history of coming up short – sort of a prison
in cinematic recall coming down the street in new
costumes of our habits which never take the tale to
the heights or depths deserved in the possession one
feels to the escape from linearity of present moments
pulling forward into and within “new” connections
and the leaning potential written on the walls again

*
July 01.2009

poem

rasta cup

perhaps at the beginning an overture against


premature action in which initiative is lost and
one is left foolishly in the parking lot of intent
while as it always does the beat goes on into a
hasty forgiveness towards one’s delictor or his
champion in the midst of fools wherein one sub
-scribes to the latent doctrine of the hours at the
very least there buried on the page of your livre
ancien more an afterglow of history than a buzz
from the baited glances of the loud overseers now

*
July 06.2009

poems

innocent dreams

I came away too soon to be recognized myself for


what was there in the first place like a signal at night
rising through the fireworks into an orbit around the
familiar and the distant both at the same time risen
in mists of chance and eloquence which come at
us unawares even of who we are any longer in this
flux of strangeness which we call our history on the
planet devised as we are by some intelligence other
than our own one hopes and then the alliances with
our various selves becomes eloquent and silent again

carry forth

what underlies daily ceremonial agendas at the grill


becalms the heart’s forgiveness into admission and
sentience for the slower attributes on this particular
day in the history of anywhere is nonetheless filled
with pops and screams from the heavens where the
open door resides into these newer realms where a
longer hour claims our attention for more eloquent
speeches and music on the mists of light playing at
the opera in your mind again the dancers mute their
lessons for the terms they have laid out for all of us

July 07.2009
three poems

where am i

there’s a resistance to a base level, a here-and-now


on the face of it at least resembling what was made
as an offer from the organization of relieved states
but who knew the dreams of history were just the
same as what had preceded on the want list of dusk
we all live with and the promise never reached active
and the primary lesson became more of one on how
to hide in the mass protected by the bodies of them
rolling on the floor with an expression of loss on a
face here and there defied recognition to just stare

what cometh

near-far syncope in the dark dusky moments before


you strum the air guitar interior minds escaping light
from the nether realm associates the darker sides at
their own service from release calms the pathway is
made at the bridge of thighs you call me down into
the morning’s blink moments are arriving to tell you
what’s coming your way today is close enough to be
the realer of the choices you made in those early hours
when the day is forming up to let you in on the secret
wouldn’t surprise anyone any more than you let them

funeral

tear-duct hoses snake across the dusky parking lot


the sawdust machines just now leaving the area an
unintended desert-circus lot complete with a black
ferris wheel and large black-painted elephants who
dance on their hind legs with their trunks twirled
while the silent black clad choir the sharptonettes
a group of middle-aged men with little beards who
overpronounce the whiny lyrics of the song “I am
the world” coming off the speakers as the family
now numbering six hundred rock and roll to money

July 07.2009
poem

franchise

you came across this particular wilderness into


the year in potatoes when there wasn’t any else
of what we were on the world’s stage a pattern
on the ground was all that was left of our cars
and stentorian elocution a quiet desperation at
the ends of things we weren’t used to quiet de-
nouments on the sands of thyme and time at
our delictation a measured desperation without
name or pity fills the air around us willingly
and fries our sun again into its constituent parts

July 08.2009

two poems
from anew

threads
across what passed for new or normal either
space fits your starts and pageants are the norm
for what is coming through the room at large
central to these bright mornings with the wind
moving through the out side air moving clean
and partly new and still the way we make this
aside from how we seem or see along the road
to the beach welcomes us into the day’s air on
all fronts seething and seasoning our rightness
into the sky above the sand below and dreaming

larks a’due

no latch in the door marks an age of piracy just


now recluding out from the hidden one into vast
spaces tendered inside the actions themselves as
alchemy prepares your meal of rats and dust in
the golden bowl like a thick soup on your plate
another scrim saddled by foreign elements has
your clinker spasmed by doubt into the layers
of light diminishment which clot the air around
the harsher climates are unremarked by weather
yet clear the signs of their emotive value here

July 09.2009
two poems

larks a’due

no latch in the door marks an age of piracy just


now recluding out from he hidden one into vast
spaces tendered inside the actions themselves as
alchemy prepares your meal of rats and dust in
the golden bowl like a thick soup on your plate
another scrim saddled by foreign elements has
your clinker spasmed by doubt into the layers
of light diminishment which clot the air around
the harsher climates are unremarked by weather
yet clear the signs of their emotive value here

slower faster further

deeper than tha snow around your faces in the


wintry night of appellations where the sky doesn’t
rain or twirl into the pages on the floor where you’d
left them striving out after recognition on the plate
warbling outward from the center of meaning now
and then a pustule on the side of your face reminds
how process is now always kind or final yet the
door reminds how easy it is to unknot your self
anew or outer in the harmony of light we inhabit
from time to time escorted by the powers at bay

July 10.2009
poem

copyright, tenure

these permanent positions last til midnight now


and then relapsing to pure order on the scheme
of things related to the one who came before you
the skyline stretched taut in this wilderness dark
the silo looms suddenly from the darkened flat
landscape in front of the headlights sweeping
along in the darkness of escape and transit to
a newer place inside time itself breaking on the
shore of your own receipts beckoning loudly
from one side of the room to the other again

July 11.2009
poem

sears profumo

nears the scar not willing to perfume stasis nor


reclamate collar on the nose of things profound
as what has passed among us for the truth we call
aloud for help or less but then assume the worst
as what decides our motives is not sense nor outer
but called upon the dusk of where we’ve been aside
the brooking flask or its indigent outers as if we’d
been here before and why not excludes the ark of
the convent spread across the human landscape flux
and marker as the light spreads around us willingly

July 12.2009
poem

a steel climb

it’s a further star from what we’re used to, some


destiny profounds into the pleasure day like knowing
against the rocks and fathoms of our own journeys into
how you called me back into the fray without a thought
from what lay ahead at the morning’s insistence like a
foreign hours where I pled you down into the sink with
pity and remembrances thrown upon the waters’ waters
before the land changed again into the opposite of what
it meant to be still we worded out the remains of the day
in some other format than this one claiming to be read

July 14.2009
poem

code of rote behavior

alas rehearsed motives elude even the rest of us from


where we’ve ended up into a portrait of small habits
descended from whomsoever seeketh in process or outer
weather report notwithstanding summer’s up the day
with questionable practices magnified and then eluded
from the consequences which might be capitalized into
a newer recompense from what had proceeded before
the parade started without me in the crowd behind the
speaker was not so funny but left us all with a bad taste
as the remainder collided outside the boundaries again

July 15.2009
poem

blues

non ephemera the strictly local variety clings yr wrap


is spent in tumor magnificence clinging as we are to
forgotten feelings stuck in the ground on a gray day
central to this she lifts my spirit with a long hug and
the news repeats again and again on the tuning box it
strangles in the corner of today where we have well-
meaning pharmacists warning us against suffocation
in the midst of sleep-filled dreams are purifying at the
longest moment leaping from crag to peak and down
into the valley of light where we transit daily and again

July 16.2009
poem

maxoplatenousnesslymentoism

today’s notoriety comes with a dry heave at the rheum


on time for the rest of the show to make do with what’s
been left by the door by way of inheritance and demeanor
on the residues of the last bunch to pass through the gate
and the next coming along with less than what preceded
them into this particular morning's mist on a heated day to
make the seeming stretch of what’s left to see a particularly
more rose calm and distinct beauty on the grounds of a new
random pattern which never retreats but compounds to this
dense but otherwise neutral pattern we call beauty & clime

July 17.2009
poem

aisle of de seat

overt now less than before your newer climate acts


suddenly a mover on the sands of time itself inside
the moving platform crushing all forms of inaction
and stasis are not so much inert as simply left aside
in the hurry to accumulate energies otherwise held
for invading armies and their particular needs are the
gray day descending from summer’s heat in the valley
is not so much an abscess as an irony on the life of
plants and animals rooming across the plains again
at the stars descending throughout climate control

July 18.2009
poem

gaslight

scanned before the heavens sent a message from above


your own particular airs call the morning early & quiet
or are you certain of that information spreading through
the skies lightening at this hour of dawn and grayness in
the neighborhood a mixture of snow and sleek weather
unreported from the preceding gossip columns are not
exactly news nor are they gossip but the hard edge of tact
on the senses laid bare by the hour of the day in which to
rest or rescue is still the order of the emerging day again
you reach out and find the other side warm and sleepless

July 19.2009
poem

vegmatic

cool on cue the modern mastic clings our vision’s parable


to none prior in the scene of time itself no resembler at the
poles of light we call boundaries in the mists of chance or a
singular crawl across the distance between here and now is
still a yellow stain among the gray layers overhead summer
day at the earliest part has music on the radio in old waltz
and promo formula the slight beginning of the day’s own
hours are still arranged around the first cup of coffee and
a gathering yawn on the face of it normal enough for this
and calling out to the others to follow across today again

*
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July 20.2009
poem

yuron deckit

nay plasma secretion overtures the only hours we have


together marking the tides one by one as they encroach
within hearing nor proper declinations foal the air with
reaching tones for the day’s colors emerging just now
a future longing to be seen among us as if some artisan
were at work on the preliminary hours for the rest of
life itself masks the newer hours our own pun on the
tone of strife and pleasure emerging nations rise at a
moment’s notice to become what they are in the mist
of light itself cloaking more obscure tempos from view

July 21.2009
poem

forced tempos

against no odds at all forms the choir on your left hand


airs are not removed but thrive unchecked by any other
arise betimes the line’s remorse nor alien checkpoint is
laid among the tiles reminding all of the sacrifice to the
day’s orientation among foreign stars unplayed in these
formal hours arriving like musical elements to anthems
and calculations marked in the turning of the colors of
the day into their opposites streaming from the objects
themselves like unappealing choices for political office
hails the chief reclining in the heat of others for renewal

July 22.2009
poem

safe haven

allied toward union’s clear and silent triumph at the heart


no mere salience from objects themselves inert sentences
love the heart’s willingness to recall and move on into this
air clinging to my skin with molecules of light inhabiting
the silence around a moving body in the room untended by
any clearer substance clinging to your hands like light and
sustenance from the open door inside your heart which is
time itself unending layers from the inner dunes rebound
into the marks along your body which are unattached by
any chords and rhythms from the ever present music now

July 23.2009
poem

lanyard collapse

coming across the planes to a new economy at last


the same old challenge persists over honesty and a
forced penetration of the allowable prescience into
day’s own respite at these gray and leafy windows
at the desk fronting my chair onto the beyond max
as the hours rote and pressure on the cuticle of your
own ministry into the unknown where it outlasts even
the succor and plenitude of the open seasons foreign
hours on the marker at your local design shop sticks
where it might at last become a knotted rope again

*
July 24.2009

poem

rotunt elixir

surrounded intermittent scanner first call for the day is


blank not full although no meter plans your outburst a
new day away is surfed up through the skylight into the
portions of gray and red and blue flowers which mind
your pleasures seeing and yet believing in this passage
into other realms which contain every moment in itheir
range and scope for revealing the secrets of the day in
some magnitude to heal the open door is always open
from passage outward for the liner notes to read well
enough continues us in our quest for new lights today

*
July 25.2009

poem

poster loop

comes as the gray sign of morning clears the air with


signs of ancient dunes and pilasters drawn upwards
into lighter scores for the heart’s beginning of the
day we started out for something in a non existent
future but a promise nonetheless on the sands round
our parapet and song rising through the obscure and
equally ancient masks of the dancers floating through
the liner notes with cardboard and iridescent castles
filling the hours with the promises we kept under us
for the duration and pleasure of the hours we have

*
July 26.2009

poem

hazled walnuts

watched the night pass by the hour, no matter in silence


your passion fruit exclaims from teak and mauve rooms
how the acher feels his dues in the midst of plenty now
as if no other saw this particular moment beyond the me
who lurks inside the line a fervent prayer to something a
line or two on he pavement, a bit of writing on a wall is
not effacement but its random cousin on the terms made
for purposes of identification at the sodden clasp you are
in this silence of purpose where we meet every day and
curl our toes round another smooth stick buried in sand

*
July 27.2009

poem

saddled elements

I found you thriving on the open air, sentiments were there


among the distances from where we were the same inside
and molded among experiences we too soon forgot them
standing there in the rain’s coping desire to become other
and then outer rooms to the whole plantation were not at
their ownership levels taut on the line of fire to be seen a
short time away was no sin but an allowance on the sands
of all and reason to become the start a searched material
a mile away from the nearest anything at all on the face of
everything added up together into a newer one for all over

*
July 28.2009

poem

beleaguered nations

slides across the rest resting arcs a plenty inside this


your own penetration holding the hours open again
I’ve slid into second on a ground rule double this air
rubric allowance nor eastern plumes arriving daily
call your hair around my tendrils making doubt here
it’s a blue balloon spinning inside the magazine cover
held in place by new priorities clashing momently
but schools the doubters from sullen attitudes daily
hold the angles around you like a sudden wasp here
at the end of time in these confusing showurs arching

*
July 30.2009

text

Prose 2

Near the occurrence at the scenario, some matter proceeded the


marks on the floor which had been laid out in advance of the writing
itself. A forgotten sensation. Ensuing houses were not motivated nor did
they exist. All was pale and predictable and new, as if the time for fateful
allowances were passing unnoticed. Blue homes dotted the airplane with
some destination implied by the closeness of the details
themselves. Another scheme for strangers, another new rhythm to the
heartbeat on the plains. This was not so much heard as imagined in the
other times we spoke to each other in the dark. Plantains were brought
in for consultations, the light bloomed like a dark spot in the road. Here
was the other ‘new’ like a fashion in disguise, no particular noise or
silence need be treated.
The score was settled evenly, as if it mattered. Other newer
partitions built up from the residues of plants were scrapped out and left
for blind. Trust the animals to set up a family trust without rules;
needless aches are flooding the market like your self in action but let out
to pasture. Hold the hours daily, mark the repeated words with a red
line in the same destiny as the comma and its relegated friends. You are
no more than this or that, but clear the tonalities of their definitions from
the answer sheet you hold in your hands like a tool or an old friend,, aver
and sing,, polestar and shuttle,, laser clouds in the bare evening sky
tooling around among the clutter of this chatter on the line. Ease to the
doubt or crush no peasants in your eyedropper… this air subsumes all
chatter and leaves the door open for more. Is it really that difficult? Not
this time, the open lines are crept aside and fathomed. Here comes the
dog.
And so the inevitable ache in the gut widens into a riverfront and
calls the new time immanent or forgiven I don’t remember which adverb
won out in the competition for a newer line to carry the day. It’s not
really a matter of time or season but a calculation forever blue and green
and red-orange all at the same time you mentioned my name to anyone
else. Score. Pull the rest of it forward or into the light, and them
diminish your other conclusions for knockwurst and salad tomatoes
roasting in the reefer like another day for flowers and nouns. I’d not had
nor wished another resemblance on the light you left behind you in the
quiet room. Another quiet room. Where’s the meat for this particular
scanner? Nothing indicates why you did this or that or anything else. I’d
not had nor season, another opener clings the tumor faithless heating
dispels all worries from manifestation or another mishandled accreditation
in the musk like a melted doorway clean on its hinges from all doubt
might trap the time clear and resonant from whatever origins are not
particularly memorable. No matter here either, but a basement and
mattress of borrowed lingo all smoothed over on the side of the road, a
nether reach. Here the story takes a turn for the better
Call me Isherwood, like another story. These empty grails are
bush-laden and outer yet uninclined to heed the wave of your hand in my
face. Neither welcome or not, but ashtrayed along the random hammers
in your pocket like a toolbox and a foundling of the forgotten rays and
plines among destiny at these newer signs left along the floor for others
to find. It’s a thin day when you cull your wasps from the garden with
long hoes and rakes from the shed near the back fence. Nor appear to
be less. It’s the line you call your own that takes repose at its own
orders from beware and palm of the long wine drinkard from the trails we
all took together and found this from somewhere else.
July 31.2009

text

Prose 3

They came and then they went into an inscrutable darkness,


carrying me along the way and dropping everything onto the road we
were walking. Nowhere the same was how the day looked in on me
without strangeness or pity, only an amalgam of colors was tied to the
sacks and boxes which were the load itself smoothing into a flat surface
which was without doubt the heaviest surface in history. You were not
along with me and yet the winds blew like rockets against the known
universe in all its complexity. Never read before writing. It’s a curse and
a blessing to have a mind at all, especially when it’s cooked and
saddened by the names life give it for remembering what’s where and
who’s let in on the secret. Another mystery enlightened. Sad mountains
claiming the sunset for a repose and a sign that another way has opened
up for the spell checker on your left hand with nobody home in the
morning to clear the way aside from all the well-wishers and mourners
and assorted strangers who came for the food.
I was tired of the bliss, forgetting that I live in paradise without
qualification or blame, still another crop on the wall, a site in the mind, a
forgiveness on the layers of meaning which persist even in our dreams
we think we have arrived somewhere in the nature of perfection yet still
we complain and wander. This is the hour when revelations are made to
the audience and claims are forgiven from the giant who runs the shop in
his blue coveralls and broken hands we mark the hours when we came
aboard and took respite in the blankness of the terror itself not
remembering and calling forth into the dark for a blank fortress to
emblazon the terms with their own means and fortunes. This is the
moment of which we have already spoken and nothing will change the
light in the room more quickly than doubt or prescience either way a
forgetting and a claim. Nowhere else does this synchronicity exist but in
the heart of the matter where you’d sorted it all out and left he residues
beside the process itself in imitation of those who have left before us in
the night of our own positions on the floor of the great hall where the
debates take place and the righteous marks the time as their own and
seem to have a title for the lines which are stretched across the floor and
onto the porch where no one is hiding.
Rough textures, simulacrum of foreign substances aimed at
hallways, the latest ideas on the radio along with funeral services for the
great and the unknown all at once, as if you’d been here before we met
on the way to somewhere, peeled among disbelief and then let to, let go
in a suggestion of doubt itself giving way to love in the mists. This is the
kind of song we labor to produce and cull the spinsters away from all else
besides lunch on the floor without pity or debt. You have arrived at the
secret, mere attraction rules the interactions between us like a psychic
magnetism or a new form of advertising the world has never seen before
now but which is a dog sleeping on the couch in the middle of the day
with nothing whatsoever to worry about, why don’t I take the same
approach to everything else in the midst of plenty to be grateful and
forgiving? These similar attributes have contributed to the accuracy of
the moment into its longing and satisfaction in the hours before us which
are beckoning and diminishing all at the same time you struck a deal with
the tramp on the road to pay his dues as well as your own lettuce and
tomatoes on the plate to one side of the terminal where the beautiful
ladies are singing simple songs into the sunny sky and rooming the plain
talk without pity or remonstrance from this particular scenario we’ve
halted and made gigantic in our fervor for the gratitude we feel for being
alive at all when so much else comes into question.
July 31.2009

two poems

circular staircase

you moved across my time like a friend , like a random


general on the move into the sunscape and hesitancy of
a lesser scheme than first imagined. another newer heir
apparently forgot his lines as well and muttered into the
microphone silently picking his place in time for these
other realities too soon mentioned to become the flavor
of forgotten crimes and other actions. this was the time
we laid up the sky colors into their constituent patterns
and called love by another name again and again these
doors opened out onto the platform for the arrivals here

dream channel

what you kept from me still a mystery any more another


line into the infinite cleans your day and strives outward
where it comes through the form itself into a new gesture
scorned upon the heavens with speed and energy enough
to mark the time your own to recover and stand forward
in the repose of the words themselves which discover a
new line into the lighted skies with their own agenda now
and them you travel into smaller realms for doubt to grow
into its constituent realities forever grown a root and palm
like the song love sings in your heart when you transcend

*
August 02.2009

text

Prose 4

Astir amid wooden signs on the wall, you strive upwards into the
noon music to attach yourself to the layer or flow of the invisible realms
which stir inside to create unknown spaces at work on the destiny of your
chowder and bole on the floor of your own same and particle at work on
the hours which have left these doorways calm and particular at their
identification within the one clarity which might reveal you to your
semblance of these objects and plasmas crossing the street with your
hand in mine is not a loss nor any kind of gain on the species of the
planet but a healing motive inside your hours again the dead rise up to
become air spirits in their indigo colors made plain by the weavers among
their tools to be a conversation on the couch inside the hotel or outside
among the noise of the highway cars rushing past and into the future
down the street as if they clung among their heavier climates are not
bagged up nor even stretched out in the sun to dry with their content
weaving clouds and colors from all the charts you ever had to detail these
allocations into the warning arm and hand signals which would warn you
of an incoming detail ready to spirit you away and into the bush where
the giant trees have fallen down and remain like spoken words which
would spring away and become these signs which are made of doubt and
pressure.
Backspin, overboard, the movie, calling for the last time, your
own magnificence is holding still along the rows of commentary and
respite, tributary, laxity, the green mountains calling you out into their
own decay and wilderness just as we arrive there. Here the hours claims
your inattention into a hypnotic memory of the person standing before
you spoke out into the darkness we all inhabit from what’s left over at the
end of the meal on your plate and rendering the residues into their own
sensorial clear transmissions have the air around you identified and
tagged for the exhibition coming up in a few minutes heaving overside
these localities are not mentioned but spoken signs on the flow of the
music through my being at all attentive is your ticket to somewhere else
strokes and fathoms overreaching the shore of faults which has elongated
the reminiscent tones of music coming through the air and into the
flux and inattention of the moment in your healing tones where the older
stories make you passage and calm.
Landscape of unintentional identities leaves you a stranger on
the planet realm or heaviness into the imaginary completion and text of
the motives on the way somewhere inside the harbor the nine thousand
dollar crane which makes the boat look even smaller being lifted into the
bay and that’s the story from the shoreline unfolding within your hours of
practice which clean the day of its responsibility for accounts and willing
tours from the dockside out over the tasks of love’s destiny reaching
inside your head heart lungs and feet marking the day your own take on
the emptiness which surrounds us in this or what you said to the night
where love’s residues claim color and detail from an unknown substance
oozing onto the floor without pity or resonance but accurate to the line of
sand stretching around the island where you crawled forth into the new
sunlight which cleansed all in its documentation and storage. Marks have
been made on the shirts in the laundry which identify them as different
although no to things are the same especially in love’s cookstove peals
your clocks and dressings from their identity as if you’d made a conscious
effort to mediate the openings on the floor or the signs on the wall which
mark you as the target of love’s aiming spoon which reflects the imagery
of your signification and heart beats which are arriving momently and
strolling your airs.
August 02.2009

text

Prose 4

Astir amid wooden signs on the wall, you strive upwards into the
noon music to attach yourself to the layer or flow of the invisible realms
which stir inside to create unknown spaces at work on the destiny of your
chowder and bole on the floor of your own same and particle at work on
the hours which have left these doorways calm and particular at their
identification within the one clarity which might reveal you to your
semblance of these objects and plasmas crossing the street with your
hand in mine is not a loss nor any kind of gain on the species of the
planet but a healing motive inside your hours again the dead rise up to
become air spirits in their indigo colors made plain by the weavers among
their tools to be a conversation on the couch inside the hotel or outside
among the noise of the highway cars rushing past and into the future
down the street as if they clung among their heavier climates are not
bagged up nor even stretched out in the sun to dry with their content
weaving clouds and colors from all the charts you ever had to detail these
allocations into the warning arm and hand signals which would warn you
of an incoming detail ready to spirit you away and into the bush where
the giant trees have fallen down and remain like spoken words which
would spring away and become these signs which are made of doubt and
pressure.
Backspin, overboard, the movie, calling for the last time, your
own magnificence is holding still along the rows of commentary and
respite, tributary, laxity, the green mountains calling you out into their
own decay and wilderness just as we arrive there. Here the hours claims
your inattention into a hypnotic memory of the person standing before
you spoke out into the darkness we all inhabit from what’s left over at the
end of the meal on your plate and rendering the residues into their own
sensorial clear transmissions have the air around you identified and
tagged for the exhibition coming up in a few minutes heaving overside
these localities are not mentioned but spoken signs on the flow of the
music through my being at all attentive is your ticket to somewhere else
strokes and fathoms overreaching the shore of faults which has elongated
the reminiscent tones of music coming through the air and into the
flux and inattention of the moment in your healing tones where the older
stories make you passage and calm.
Landscape of unintentional identities leaves you a stranger on
the planet realm or heaviness into the imaginary completion and text of
the motives on the way somewhere inside the harbor the nine thousand
dollar crane which makes the boat look even smaller being lifted into the
bay and that’s the story from the shoreline unfolding within your hours of
practice which clean the day of its responsibility for accounts and willing
tours from the dockside out over the tasks of love’s destiny reaching
inside your head heart lungs and feet marking the day your own take on
the emptiness which surrounds us in this or what you said to the night
where love’s residues claim color and detail from an unknown substance
oozing onto the floor without pity or resonance but accurate to the line of
sand stretching around the island where you crawled forth into the new
sunlight which cleansed all in its documentation and storage. Marks have
been made on the shirts in the laundry which identify them as different
although no to things are the same especially in love’s cookstove peals
your clocks and dressings from their identity as if you’d made a conscious
effort to mediate the openings on the floor or the signs on the wall which
mark you as the target of love’s aiming spoon which reflects the imagery
of your signification and heart beats which are arriving momently and
strolling your airs.
August 03.2009

text

Prose 5

Excess of this not called, named, not anything, as empty goes


astar between you and what might follow one line at a time AS each word
is a narrative and together there are overtones and a resonance which is
the composition itself no longer a narrative of one word at a time but a
chaotic symphony of unexpected results and resonance which itself is
made up of chance overtones and cadences unrelieved by whomsoever
follows the lines through their invisibility and newness into the realm
where the personal experience captivates and restores beginnings and
endings to the marginal spaces between one utterance however that is
defined and inasmuch as no overlap exists, not really possible but in that
space between words you might say there occurs an end chaos and
beginning over and over and if it is true there is only one sentence one
utterance to be made in its manifest multiplicity then there is always a
new at any given instance so that birth(s may occur repeatedly and
continually not to belabor the point but to establish that behind the naked
priorities of the intent to communicate there is the familiar lag time
between intention and action which gives the message the character it
comes to have even in the midst of obfuscation and renewal there is yet a
similitude of the speaker and the listener even when they are
instantaneously one identical witness tempering and stratifying the very
organization of life itself in its heart beats of synchronicity which vibrate
the planet and its blood into the frenzy that it comes to have.
Concise is not. Thereupon mere elocution or wood rasping in the
dark of the night or the bear’s footprints in the sand in front of the empty
lot across the street this morning in the midst of such immediacy and
presence it is no wonder not much attention ages beyond its treasury in
contemplation of the underground themes which are flowing to
connection and extension for the forms themselves to even come to exist
yet have any priorities of importance which are not entirely personal and
secret thereby forcing the underground current to seek expression in the
guess work of the hummingbird which is completely directed because the
energy expended in the quest for the flower juice is in itself a vocabulary
and a triumph seeking calmer ground for rest if there is such a thing for
the specific tonality of the seeker and the sought in their own drama and
forgiveness the very structure of the unknown in its proximity to the rest
of what there is at all in the senses to portray or restore the actual to its
place in history at least the history of the moment and as we say if there
is one song continuously uttered in its unity and praise so too is there
interlineated between the actual and its empty calm and so too is there
an incarnation of the word itself in what is among our distances as we
claim our own inattention for the remainder of the quest a stranger and a
wanderer on the road of chants and pressures itself a destination and a
repose between moments where the energy required to fire the next
salvo is accumulated and then released rat-a-tat-tat into the space
between words erasing the preceding and engendering what is to come in
the next prefiguring its own content which has no destination save in the
action of the viewer or experiencer and which remains unknown and
invisible how else can we prefigure or visualize the partitions in
consciousness which approach love in its manifestations and explorations
in the tribe of the mass, in the turn of the screw and the mass of the pass
we are still in wonderment in calculation and in reflection at least in my
own case and insofar as I am merely inscribing the inside of my braincase
with the luxury of forgotten symbols and reticent explorers who delineate
the planet with their play and therapeutic dreaming
August 03.2009

poem

lurid details

you spoke marvels at center and dogma inside these parts


of lines are swept apart and into your back pocket against
the world’s opposites are set in particular accuracy into a
moronic calculation of angle and reportage which is another
left leaning line on the center of everything as small details
smother the larger scale of being which kept us apart in proc
-ess another legion of anchors designs the newer doorways
are swept aside in the hurry to believe whatever is given at
the lesser of all attributes into the appearance of meaning a
line on the sand of love’s destiny in the heart again you are

*
August 04.2009

poem

cradle laden

the marker taken from elements on the shelf who were actually
in rebellion against the particular place they found for themselves
was not final nor precise in the measure of what had preceded it
into this new room of air spirits and colors on the floor of the day
but held like a destiny on in a new time when you don’t know where
you are going but out beyond the hours on the floor calling her
names into the place around your light filled being was not a due
nor a location on the floor to decide anything but what was meant
to locate your alphabets along with love’s ark on the dock again
these hours sing beginnings on the walls around your heart
August 04.2009

text

Prose 7

Doldrums hesitancy your left finger unattached still has the rung
of truth evading attention from the outer coil a manner in your
safekeeping would clear the air of everything else but the remainder and
cull the wasps from all drawers and hinges on the ring of doubt I called
you out from the darker realms unattached to anyone else beside the
tower or next to the lake a formal entreaty is never wasp nor petrol
claiming attention from the layers into the room of tiles and rupees have
their own agendas marking the tides against the wall of the room like
marks on an ancient wall left by the previous invaders in their hurry to
make the day better for their purposes you may have come into the room
sooner and then made some changes to the day which made it better
than you’d thought another scrim plastered on the halls of ivy from
whence all blessings come maybe another relaxation is called by any
other name is still made simple in the context in which it operates but
made calm in the duration of the surroundings which are culled not
rasped into the new shapes we have forgiving all encroachment and
potential from their ultimate locale in the particular room we find laid out
before us this way and that is never an empty promise as this reading
allows the energy of the cosmos to lead through the unending sentence
with all varieties extended into the realm of doubt which is the moon in
its arrival not specified or pushed out of place.

I seem to have let go of the aftermath rather than emphasizing


its doubt for a central theme even though my inclination is toward the
ladder and not the pose itself but an intensity you’d not seen before now
and then the hours claim your being for its own purposes which are
themselves another reaching dogma I’d called out reached out a hand
and foot into the baby void in favor of something longer and shorter but
not without destiny and relapse into the morning’s stillness holds you
back in run on sentences like a daft or pulley clings to your heart like a
relief and a doubter on the musk of your own intentions is still a
formational pattern relieving itself of any pretension to meaning of
purpose rather a channel for the engenderment of your own relapse and
center marking time with your left hand is still preferred practice
elevating your familiar words into the specificity the come to have in this
particular context of unspoken truth mixed with pure animal excrement is
not a crime but rather a purpose lingering on the tides you’ve left behind
you in the dark on the table which is not so much a purpose as a goal on
the tides of light forthcoming in expectancy and doubt which you’ve
garnered like a patent or an invented copyright on the very space you
inhabit.

A tallish gray haired guy named gene put in the plug which is
now falling apart although no blame is offered from the polar on your
placemat archived between senses from another newer calm particle and
claim are neither mentioned or positioned on the ring of fire we all inhabit
among sensate ions coming more easily than the moods which precede
and follow as you might imagine an earthquake a passion a newness and
calm bestrid astir in what claims your hours like some inner circle has the
fluctuant repose like a center sender plus and minus on the ark of love
intending to complete the sentence from its intentional calm far into the
future of its promises and whispered messages which are all meant to
soothe you out of your own particular doldrums offering itself into
seasons from a departure and an arrival all at the same time granting
wishes or polling arks and lovers into their constituent claims for
attention on the husk of doubt which remains as time’s due and central
sign on the doorway into the other rooms are filled with light.
August 05.2009

text

Prose 8

Scales the door across wooden lines you’d crossed this place
before the other silence not made or posted on the lights you’ve laid bare
on the obfuscation of the hours in their own particular identity as if some
crossing occurred in the syntax of these terms we’ve made together in
the silence of the following hours are still magnificent terms for what
made the doorway into its own definition of space prohibited from
lounging in the open hours are not magnified nor unknown on the hour of
the day of the year you kept behind the mark you’d set against the tides
as if these sentences remitted their own sensations on the husk of the
moment you went aside and called out for help in the midst of plenty nor
any ark betrayed in its path from any deterrence or offal on the cling of
modes through to their open season on light itself is manufactured from
whole cloth in the distant terms we’ve calculated as if this second were
an interruption of the next day you came ashore on the windy lands
beyond the seas as if some sentence were called like the day you came
through and left the door willingly open or closed or whatever in the still
sensations of the moment was the identity of the sentence as you culled
these shores at fault from some destination unknown in the days
preceding this particular sign of passage on the sign of the times where
you crawled into the ark and wept no silences against the hour in the
heart as if no matter flowed from its own distances behind you and
passing.
This was the light we left on to mark the way for strangers to
arrive and fall in the courtyard with their clothes around them like mostly
or less was forgiven in the moment of the hours we kept to ourselves the
lanes and passions of the day aside from this air penetrating the calm
distance with its banyans and beacons on the night some declination
strokes your permit from its emptier solutions on the floor of the day
where you start and finish the terminals from their own future on the
closest of the signs they sell the air aside from time itself is broken on the
wheel of life or nestled up against the mountain like a future or a destiny
you’d only felt along the way from this singular partition scheming in the
open air for a position on the floor to share the voice of the people in its
great bestiality and purpose in controlling the entire show with an open
season on the truth which would cling and snap in the wind with all
others in regard for him who seeks along the way for a message or a
sentence on the lam from all that proceeds.
Some days easier than others is the name of the game in your
heart as well as your heart beating on the left side of your chest with a
tour guide to manage proportion and destiny like a woolen robe gathered
on these larks of doubt and pleasure all intermixed where the other days
begin to be seen in their own definitions toward these obscure and
remote premises only implied in these words themselves and then
isolated to a sublime or snoopy character either way you look at it the
process is more or less secret into the darkness which precedes and
follows you out of the closet and into the light walls which surround the
chasm love makes on the nature of the days we find ahead and behind in
their own identification of the one which releases this energy into the
composition itself with an accuracy and a doubt which are not curled but
laid aside in the quest for another perfect day at the keyboard however
long it took to spell this out into the electric horse and rider we floated up
the air into the muted light to characterize and proclaim the wherewithal
of the spoken sign all confused and broken on the floor of the room
where the open hours lie all different from the ones preceding and the
tales we told along the way for anyone to understand how it could come
to this passage in the dark and center.

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August 06.2009

text

Prose 9

Dayfair, spread across the page, no filter on this channel nor any
impediment to doubt itself in this starting over of lineage and profundity
left like layers on the floor of life itself to slip and scrape your show no
sullen wasps declare the hour apart from this empty air you called me
into with such grace and sadness left on the corner shelf to dissipate in
the willing hours formed into little balls of clay and then poked spraddled
coaxed into more or less round shapes on the rotating head of the
pottery wheel which is bolted to the floor in willing compliance with this
too a hopeless task never approximating the intention you had in mind in
the first place but rather elongating into the space provided for the
duration of the project another new realm cooled-out onto the display
platform like a treaty or an essence on the shelf of life moving slowly
down the ramp into the hustings and portrayals of the doubt committee
meeting today in the pit of your stomach a reality in itself of an emotional
nature registering all the flops and stutters of the day itself some
hummingbird outside the window beating a staccato tattoo onto the
leaves themselves almost disappearing from lack of a summer rain on the
shores of the great sea where you’d think we have plenty of moisture to
settle the natives into their constituent realms on the floor of doubt like a
sentry or a gong uttering its own claims for attention on the day of the
page itself another newer lineation cleaning the ark without any particular
realm of light to inhabit to make you feel better than the pipe itself a
fixture on the desk in front of you as if it meant something in itself
another newer sign of the unknown relaxing into consciousness from
whence it came to greet you without an announcement or diatribe on the
willingness of the flesh to preside over thought in some destiny you’d
recalled in the first place from the dance or the doorway itself into the
other realm where whatever happens there will be a secret still since
there is nothing coming across despite the best intentions of generations
of listeners at the sign of the day moving into casuistry and plenitude
which kind of sort the day into its fragments without confusion or
distinction when there is literally no end in sight beyond the one that calls
you forward without hesitation or any rallying point or a cheerleader into
consciousness where the delicados roll up and down the pack into your
open palm for a light and a draft on the unpleasantness of the times as if
no other were in the way to civilize you from anything on the wall or in
the closet a macro on the desert of life’s own rain barrel full to the top
and yet not leaving anything unturned for a cold air to blow down your
neck and give you the chill of a lifetime thriving in silence for the future
of the doubt itself no meter in your mists would clear them out or not
being the vaporous substances that they are in this particular destiny of
light and dark and formless form which we all inhabit for our moments on
the clime and treasure to foal-out the pony wall and the barn itself into
some accuracy of connective tissue which is what marks you sudden or
not even trying to clear the air from around your nose filled as it is with
small insects from the space ship anchored overhead on the top shelf of
your kitchen closet which is painted blue and white just like the old
country a memory in the heat of the moment another climate in the hour
of need which has grabbed all the headlines for these moments in the
dark we clustered along without stopping for love’s anchor in the heart to
explain everything you wanted to know against the tides they swept
along with some potential for doing the right thing again the monster
tides swollen up the coastal regions into a foment of their ordinary calm
which clear the air of all that interferes with such clarity that we gasp in
pleasure.
August 06.2009

poem

recovered entities

I slogged the dreamworks through pasty landscapes all night


And lessened the clutch of hours from their nomenclature at a
Forgotten truck stop where piles of shoes marked the way to
Another sign of the times with no playing cards in sight again
But you smothered the light from under the wagon and called
Out for help among the drivers none of whom came around
And closed your window on the season forever young like the
Day we stopped and smelled the wagoneers and their cargoes
Lining the great road with their buckets and traps for food now
A distant memory on your platter in the night of the day you met

*
August 07.2009

poem

finnnagle boom

the road across time bounces and becomes distantly near


stroking as it is the names of all who came before inscribed
layers accumulating new to history or its reasonable facsimile
on the heavens sent apart from some newer destiny about
now is the term you have for light for love accumulating
here in he ruins where he birds have full range of flight
and the lessons poll your heart with sudden intensity at
the doorway looming open at the end of the empty barn
as the forgotten ministry gathers at the end of all time
to gather these hours into the basis for a new history

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August 07.2009

text

Prose 10

Here the room settled out into landscape we hadn’t seen before, another
room on the skytrain puffing at the station in this day of instant space
travel we snockred the light around us like unwilling partipants in the
march of the hours across the skies and into the trees like a lightning
strike in the depths of the morning sun another marker signaling that the
day was gone awry from the colors on the sky a series of grays and grays
that held us in thrall against he promise of sunshine which was purely
seasonal and had not much to do with the weather here at the beach but
which rather depended on the scale of the acts taking place inland where
no birds sing in the night but call all day for food and drink and maybe a
new deck of playing cards to sponsor out their time on the bench in front
of the tele small birds playing cards for big dues among the strangers at
the door some closure arrived in woolen sacks hidden by the dark moon
over head in the wind blowing through the trees like a threat to further
action in the solitude of the hours we’ve left behind in the hurry to leave
them on the floor for the followers to see what exactly was left to
discover in the first place but which nonetheless allows some destiny to
take shape in the morning cloud cover giving way to a cool drizzle which
might lighten as the day grows brighter from whence it came and stayed
around to take names and get it right fortunes on the line, cars parked on
the street with folks sleeping inside them, their stomachs knotted in pain
and disrepair like a bad night at the restaurant at the bowling alley with
the colored lights illuminating the hours you stayed behind me on the
platform a smoother version of myself than even I could have imagined in
the night of dreams when you don’t recall taking out anything into the
yard not anything at all but the savior himself walking the turmoil of
man’s inabilities to face the music and get on with the task at hand which
is still a matter of civilizing the world into its several entities unprotected
and unawares of the direction and flow of the journey itself a mystery to
all concerned I called you in to share this broken dream we all know and
love as the real deal itself a mystery and an outlandish tale making the
rounds of the talk shows as we came to know them a form of formalized
manipulated gossip strung out on the line like telegraph messages from
the world we left behind so quickly and easily that many were surprised
at the utter lack of consequences and informalities reaching within the
motion around the doorway itself a lack and a focal plane for attention to
argue over and bend into more or less familiar projects for the others to
get their hands around in the morning when you find these words under
your pillow and ask ‘why me?’ and then absorb the lesser arks from their
responsibilities for carrying out the sign of the maker in short ironic
bursts of logic and imposition on this realm of light and dark which is
otherwise distinguished by any familiarity you might envision for these
lines to take place and then get lodged within the transitory and calm of
the message itself really a peaceful brand of doubt rolled into the balls of
substance we see lying about in the fields as evidence of human
intervention and the ignorance which drives us here again and again
finding the same recall and pattern on the floor of the door striding into
the light like a leader and holding the microphone loosely with one hand
while looking out over the mass is not something I would willingly to in
the morning or evening for love’s dues on the anchor of the morning itself
when the deaf fires glow silently at the rim of the world and collapse
entirely under the weight of their own formations on the night of flowers
in the dark changing the name of the game into something more
acceptable and yet less dominant than any preceding messages.
August 08.2009

poem

lost found

I found you wandering inside my body like a straight arrow


rooming on the moon without a passport stuck me down
cleaned my lizard in the half light of morning and recalled
your smiling face on the front side of tomorrow with your
hair streaming through my dreams in full fledged detail
bits of strands cling to my hands when I touch your image
leaving me weak and pallid forested on the ark of now
as this is the sign we give to doubt in all its essence and
charm to relieve the soul of its weight and soar within
the body into newer territory and out of storage at love’s
dues are set around like lights or candles or new mysteries

*
August 10.2009

poem

sees across

print access no master in the tank today is far from over


seals the door with duct tape and paints around the area
you are these willing prosecutions of doubt seen against
what flux details the foreign passageway in favor of this
I’d struck again with ferocity and courage in the face of
clings to moving figures on the screen playing at baseball
in heart no column thing to rasp your other lines around
but hears the solemn chants of the others inside the dream
and marks the doorway opening into gray and red stripes
at no place like any other how the day swings ahead now

*
August 10.2009

text

Prose 12

Singular link history decides leaving not the same but special in the mask
of what’s decided from austere shades not particularly new nor
essentially old but made out of what’s left on the table after dinner is not
new but old in the places we find inside and streaming every other way
you can think of to outer coils on the munificence of the day itself a
newer climate than what’d been ascribed to more distant locations on the
map of light which fills the screen with its own agenda on the mounting
tides we followed out to sea the rest accumulating in the mists if what’s
been calculated out from the walls and floors you painted with a five inch
brush in the Montana snowstorms just before Christ- mas more years ago
than all the bat rips which were to come on the window sills surrounded
the room waiting for the net to arise and take definite form more self
serving perhaps than you’d thought possible interrupted as we were by
the final moments of the game on the tube in front of our eyes and ears
alike sending and receiving on the wings of winter in a foreign country far
to the north in the mountains with a pulp mill at the end and five rivers
coming into the bare valley where it all lay about as if by accident with all
the different kinds of houses you can imagine built there by such ass who
we were on the plains of rubble and scratch pasting it all together and
still caught up in memory with the talisman in your pocket to identify who
was there and who was not and who escaped and who melted into the
ground without names or pity from the surrounding trailer parks and
warehouses and ski huts and grommet shops and hourly destinies
measured on these lessons not a specific density in the mind but another
element in the puzzle of where we came from at the end of the day and
still there now a much larger city but all spread out on the hills and
valleys around the city itself everything new and untested in the
striations of memory and intellect converging on the days themselves
rhythmic polarities which have altered the landscape irreparably marked
on the dirt floors by old ladies with sharp wooden sticks at the end of
time itself “As has So let” goes the banner on the wall with the flame
retardant and the parachute training towers out at the airport as marked
in the history of anything else mated in response to the mechanism which
corrects spelling mistakes automatically required that they appear in a
close enough approximation to the spelling itself as you are before me on
this alien terrain which is a local treasure on the landscape itself a
forgotten room all out in the open and which is yet apropos to the lines
on he floor surrounding the figures standing in the room with sunlight all
around and indistinct shadows call it mid day in the heartland where no
birds sing and nothing follows as this begets that and forges on into the
heat and blasting furnaces of the lines around which delineate locale as
well as utterance from an unknown turf laid out for planting and fertilizing
into lawns and parks and guest cottages not unknown to outsiders
coming through the dunes with colored hats on and kites flying in the
brisk air from the ocean which is blowing all the time more than you’d
like and not much to do about it after all is sand and done up wind from
the land you came from just a small town boy and a wanderer to boot
although nothing is mentioned of this anywhere new to me after all I’ve
been there and marked time on the walls beside my chair when I sat the
whole summer out with my three sons languished and waited for me to
make some kind of decision about what actually was going on like a letter
to a distant relative you didn’t think would reply with anything other than
yes I know and all that stuff went down in the years following love’s dune
filled presence in this moon of shooting stars and brightness.

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