WHY'S THIS THING NOT WORK
defining for several decades a
discussion offered by more
attention to provisions and
descriptions. the next thing
is discipline, amalgamating
illegible value more than a long
important breath, forms
defining what you mean to
them to you
a religion of z's, product
of negotiation (even
as they are leaving) necessitates
convivial tricks (connivance,
confidence, etc, etc) that fall to
habit. blur burbles may stretch
their legs but not leave
this circle without calling
down the dogs with bees in
their mouths (or the bees with dogs
in their mouths (and their songs that
chronicle misused scare optics from
month to month)). we've always
been discussing that blue smoke that
manifests the sky. turtle's eggs
often come up too, sickle and shovel
of stories. grass-stained thank
you cards addressed to the remnant grass
uphold some oil above their heads.
small space emerges all the time, barnacles
on creed, meeting in one
question. lil' imposed multiplication
tables. exoskeleton or shell?
its communication rubs up on variousness's
suspicions in doggy years.
POEM WITH A HAMMER AND
COFFEE POT
for Diyah
raggedy in the archive i surface looking
for summer — midnight sweats, pale
bread, mayo, carrots, chewy sipple in the dark
corner. opening the leaves a little
further into the brush you see lakes in the future
or latkes — big pillowy cakes like at b&h
or the crisp birds' nests mom makes —
speak earth people, you too into
the selvage.
intercosmic grip on the hammer family
called, swung like topical
snowstorms into the soft
thicket — i chew on and
on the name not named for a way to
procure names, get right here fast.
buttering up to your star, i
look away to see across, dewy and cold as
a can — and there you are
rearranging the walls rather
than the furniture. eh, i fumble with the lips of
towards
i must teethe on to love, the broke myself of
feeling around inside being for
a lost worm worms in found earth.
and baby cats strike the waves of an era and one
no longer knows the meaning of no one. and river
dolphins
get lost at sea, their bones one day become
vinyl records to play back the past at a vanishing
point vantage — allow me
to install the ideal of where we'll stroll
tomorrow, rhymes quit stalling. o we speak so
deep into the feet of our lovers, fêteless,
unfettered — somebody try and
stop me from sewing some design to the coffee pot.
now move your hermit crab house into permanence
become plantlight and dew — let's go over
to see you.
POEM ON FISH AND HUMANKIND AND STRAINS OF FLOWER
just put a name in that machine
and let it fuck you up
the words
sure as individuated pieces
curses
in a school, a flock a gaggle a band,
a
badelynge, a coven, a bunch, a hive,
a
gathering, a pride, a family, a pod,
a
herd, a group, a few
birds are still in flight believe the birds
in the bed, in the eye of the moon, why's everyone
think poetry's got so much to
do with words
with you
we must destroy the government
and every language that has one in it
fruit farmers, poets, flower growers, ones
who wait, those who are on, minute singers, the
professionless, the expressionless, bodhisattvas, and
bedbugs beg the question's sentience
the quest's sentence
how i speak the moon or the tile floor or
anything in particular to your fullness —
the moment's incompletion
like ticks in the lawn
makes sense
remember
radio?
remember
reed boats plying the tigris at dusk?
in the densities of any
concrete slab
kernels of breath's
bequest
remember
for what
nostalgic
for nostalgia (monopoly of speaking
perfectly
with death)
longs only
for what's left to be done
