1:42

the trust computer says stay at home with your shawl and needlepoint the future you think you deserve into the face of the showerstall. it may take some serious work on the forearms to be able to pierce the tile there, but take your time.

the trust computer has keys that cannot be mistaken for other letters. it knows already what you wish to say and clarifies your thoughts as they spill out like bees from a bag of honey. a bag of honesty, it sorts your stories for you. never will the lie you told to person b become the truth you swallow after a night with person x. it's there for you in ways no set of liner notes could ever hope to be.

the trust computer doesn't need a screen. it cannot be shorn. it faces everything with glee and capsizes when the drinks are done, the tiny umbrellas taken from your mind and lining the sand where you house your dreams. there is no outside left, all of the thoughts you could have divorced have come running back to you with their nooses cut. you swim, swim out into the crisp horizon. a sun for a hat. always the distance just right--far enough out to not touch bottom. the line dimming and straight.

11:10

about shy the minutes turn their heads away
cover their faces with their hands and say

beep beep. a car on corner. a car heavy with passengers.
a car the way you remember your childhood

smoke and mirrored. blank as faucets, as bank accounts.
i'm no certainty. you've got all the lies you want to tell

and a book for beating the pages out of dust.
to win and swim away from all the podiums. to mis-

spell words and hold people by their tiny hands
and walk crookedly up to a vendor on the street

asking for a quenching thing with a pocket full of change.
yes, it's future times. and no one's flying in their autos yet.

i'll swat the fly until it regrows wings in its Rorschach splat.

11:38

i'll spit the spirit out
it kind of looks like parenthesis
and a glut of question marks
ink-dark and shiny

i'll spirit out the spit
lungs fresh and pine-tasty
a bucket for the hull hole

you can like to tell this story
or set the dates up on a pinwheel
and watch them spur into dirt

the sport in it's danger when
you're winning. all the pamphlets
and noisemakers discarded
over footprints. very descriptive

in the smarts. very toothy
in the grinning. almost no gums
left. and nerves that jangle, nerves
that shout their names out.

There was tell of a man with a tree growing in his lung. A pine. Right where his breath was coming and going from. No light there except what came through his speech, throat wide open and the sun above it. How these things happen. How they keep this happening. And what is it you believe/what you hear-see?

5:32

i can hear the ford bank and slip
a bag for churches to carry the cash in

keep thin lights blink/blinking
a fit cut of padlock, an eye divorced

of early. these words are not my friends
my friends are not my friends

or they are pretending and so again
i'm folding my lonely napkin

and slipping along the front of a week.
but i am not even myself

a granary filled with fat mice
all the crumbs wiped up

in another minute.

3:16

the braid of tin cans slip and spill off a bumper.
1954 and this is what marriage looks--kite-like, strings and noise,
no misspelling.

we will be considered something of a gleam years into the future.
and the narrative arc drops off its checked climax
to the final unraveling.

where is the raveling up? this is not about how to place
your chin into a past hat to come out dark
and cleft, the beauty of shadows.

heat and screaming children drink
in the formation of summer. the lazing of sunday
and screen doors that creak closed/open. a coca-cola

commercial to live by. addiction minus substances to abuse
equals a flat line. the sound of tires turning up
a dirt lined drive--all of this family.

all of this noise.

2:24

i don't want
to grow up.
it's getting
later each day.

the plot of the dream
was simple: all
things ran together.

now more coffee.

10:17

wash this fire off
from the black book read
how to talk at table

take your face and make it
do this
pacman gesture

sound there goes in and out
and in you are not
hazarded by windows

the smoke in them
bird scuttle
a color blinded by ways

the sun comes down
open
the air out

lots of articles to use
and claim this with
springloaded precision

8:43

this slipper, this. a granite block
of a foot comes

forage through your notions
like hunger was a motive

for thinking.
the streets are lined

more carts steam there
licked by the sun.

i'm no portal for quick slaps
i'm no kin of regular projects
i'm no yore written pamphlet

you can kitten the most vicious land
sliding your back up and down

my fortnight for your jumping jack
my whippet for your ground jaw

a lack in statistics, a growl

11:03

the lucky are gathered with their coins and charm
a split in the way the wind blows
a hat for the treetops, clear blue
all lost things find themselves home
somewhere new.

lately rhyme has been friendly and the sounds i create are gutters wired with rain...
creeley on the brain...

what course
is the world to take
with us in
its hold?

today my shoes
spark less
and the sparkles
your eyes

the sparkles
your eyes.

11:24

what makes fiction less real that non-
fiction? the stop post goes flapping away

a night red shaped and lipped with rain.
all the valleys a wind can spill through, all

the dales waving their boughs. i've never
lied to get a purse filled or lifted my shirt

for beads. there's nothing showing
on the screen now. a blank thing

and blinking. what's real comes out
from another space--what surrounds

the screen--what fictive there blinks
and comes into word. my minutes are

almost up. my hands are stuck in shapes
they don't recognize. keep these keys

well cut and oiled, they're squat and squeak
when pressed right. like us. like us. like

others, too. but like us best. we want our lives
in you.

6:28

well the rains came--said hey buddy, the street is a snakeskin...

haven't listened to jane's in a while. but they were on the other day at the bar. on record. and it was warm.

cattle for prodding, the heroes singe their numbers onto the skin and off into a field--a go-go.

here's a picture from a train. there are lots of trains in my life and the rain makes me speak a bit less cryptic. or the tires do that, the wheels and tired. losing air.

so far, so far. and good. here's to the absent trains of archbald--a flat penny on the tracks missing its face, its house for tiny lincoln on the back.

10:48

i thought it said "secret orange" but it was damaged
not like fruit at all--its taste chalky and worded.

the whip for hearing, the sound of sweat in a palm
tree, a drip-drop-drip. a cast for the hearing, a heart

that gets wrapped in cloth and small scraps of paper.
the men and their nerves--a setting of tables

the silverwear angled away. no school for manners
here--look at the shoulder hunch, the graceless

finger-padding. all elbows and no sweetness.
a seed for the fruit is its key and tuning, a number

let go for the lotto.

5:13

(most have been in the first half hour, for some reason)

the heat spots come
and then for drinks we take our faces to water
and stick them in.
a straw glides down your spine
and watch the contours there, each bump
a node where other fluids could stop up
your brain. could make weird noise--causes
an effect. a slight lessening of cloth.
descent into another evening draped with bottles--

all this drapery spaced out so slanted.
heart slash mind. you are under weather
and i am not weather.

1:17

through all five windows
of your senses--connect your sheets.
come undone.
these are not directives, or what floats spatially between words-
their breathy compartments.
implore the curtain shudder. all glisteny clock cogs rapping against
one another. this blister is the sun
and we are, too.

1:09

post late and lay down. law. laid. dawn.
the sky comes up fighting, it's all jaw and glass fixtures. \
the nine of us frown our faces into cement, a cut of side walk
an angle for the light to swerve through.

keys jangle and doors do what doors are meant for. keep out and in, get in the way.
a face for the skipped hat parade. make sense of what it means to book.
this is a sequence of letters that can be made into a sequence of other letters.
find mean and -ing that way. each statement gets a line.

each of you cuts right through this, trough. water. lime.

2:14

in his dream the boy
was a bear
in a mirror. outside
of the mirror he was
a man dressed
to go to work, his face
clean-picked
from a magazine

all my friends are lovers
and they learn to break
their lines like with a sharp
pair of pants--how the hem
how the inseam

i've no shout left
to gather all the stains
and send them packing

the boy grabs his tie-a bushel
of berries in the mirror-outside
he starts his waking.

7:18

this blinking thing came running into. this think too.

um...all the skin we shed would make other bodies. no one wants to mention how many people they lost. it just keeps coming off.

today i talked on the phone and talked loudly near others. i wonder if they wondered what my yeses and laughing amounted to.

the train took us away. the bus, too. midweek, blue.

(next post might have a rant of sorts in it about the interference noises my damn phone makes with any other electronic device in its vicinity)

11:37

to blank the ness. cover your body with flies, your mouth a buttery sun that breaks the day yolk like and drizzled.

do not carry chuck norris around in tree form saying don't mess with me, you know this tree is chuck norris.

there are rules for us. someone watched the right television shows growing up. my hat is a plant now and the wade into sleep like a river made out of hushed sounds. a fog set down.

1:12

the paper crinkle behind me. a corner view of snowlakes. faking it.

i fail to list the proper ailments, but shake shake shake. and wait for the brewer to say it's done.

you count my fingers wrong. you mask your mirrored phone and keep your face tiny inside it.

all the growth we've gone through already. it is tuesday. i am two days behind. the map of this month scrawls into the wall. a pattern of pinholes. what top to make of it. a hat.

dirt in the window combines with the screen behind it to make me think its my eyes that trick me.

10:28

the basis: a window to watch from: the world kept frame by frame away.

yesterday and yesterday before that we kept running into satiny obstructions. don't ask. the night was for us. the day not so much.

today there are shots in my drink to make me talk better.

the light on the pine needles makes a blanket. or the needles do this to the ground. the light makes up songs about this.

you will catch a voice too. you will catch it and hold it in the hollow of your head.

2:15

late.
it's tomorrow today already.
it's morning too early.
have a happy one with the horsehead and the hours.

i'll be whistling the clogs. the clock to happen.
seem this current g-listen. glisten.
tomorrow already.

4:07

tonight, to stand and see people dance in the sky.

before that, to take pictures and start the leaving document.

i will speak encryption with tiny keys. my tongue a salt lick--the animals come rushing.

you sleep in your reinvented wheel and when sound goes out it will beat against something until it has no energy left. a stripped barrier.

5:53

lag option is non-negotiable. keep opening the far doors and see how creases come clean off the shirt after it's worn. the work in shirt.

almost forgot to post today. almost was a travesty and spelled wrong, but the little red underline.

a lot needs to happen tomorrow and for the rest of the days.
been watching john adams and wondering about how skin does its job--keeping things in/out and falling off.

my i is not capital. my u is not either.
down.

somebody suggest a game.

1:49

the blitz for a double shot of espresso. shaky-brained and needling the words out. a stitch and stretch, my eyes like two balloons--stray lifting out from the socket.

we are dancing without return service. this and a title for food. my soon visiting friends will cross out the weather. i sleep before they get here.

the notes i leave scribbled on paper. the notes you find mashed up in your hair. sameness by sameness in words. in both.

create a sense of the capital we're inhabiting. no somber flounce. no, that's you wading into the end of summer. that's me wading into habits.

day whatever this number is.

2:32

almost edged into the sameness of numbers on this one.

can sleep be appropriated by cloudmass, by logs of how to discourse with wood and sheer rock faces, or the settlement of the judiciary branch--what timber there?

i've got a wet pair of sneakers and wet bottom of pants and a new outlook on windows. not operating systems, not how quick to set the snaps.

it's almost time to start walking to where the train stops, for me to do this and the rain has moved along the corridor some.

if it was inside us. the umbrella of clocks--a sweeping and one directional thing.

3:53

zonked in head, like for pillows but with more heat and less hair.

i am not unhappy with the late night haircut, or ever with the view from a rooftop in sunnyside--however distorted the citi building makes the rest of the skyline.

these words are unfilted. there should be an -er in there. filt.

the sink is empty now. a glass vase that used to hold flowers is soaking.
more papers to shout through. and tired. i worry what happens to my hair--what kinds of spells cast. imagine a future with closets full of cut hair.

2:16

after the latening of pranks, breakfasted. eggs and toast and talk and new book prep.

i'm waiting on a friend. and this sink needs attention, what's in it.

tonight is the finnish. fins spreading their bets at the tournament--a lot of michigan stating, and this sink needs attention--a feeling that pitt makes in the stomach.

to do the dishes, take a sponge (hopefully not too racked with water) and add suds then add dishes. whatever number comes up should be partially prime--inside of itself.

really though. i'm going to wash dishes and i'm dull an full and there are more papers to squawk at.

here's another picture:

5:18

so it's looking like i'm going to post daily here at a given minute. is it poetry month? in a book where the words are hiding, unaware of things like time.

shannon's still napping. today was the perfect nap day. it still is being this.

today i saw lou reed standing outside a puppy store. he was looking at the puppies. lou reed--shuffly walk, puppy looker-atter. who knew.

i couldn't say anything. he creates silences. i wonder if he naps.

10:19

I lost the minute I was supposed to post the post in. It was supposed to be a minute ago. Work and worms and the slow build of logging/
this is my what-for.
capitalize the new brutalism.
a shirt made of angry gestures. a birdfilled shirty.
the screen just made some sort of screechy motion.

to be honest, perfectly. I worry about possession, about becoming possessed. things from the middle of the night sink into a back and chest. on tamer on tamer on old datsuns and ernest borgnine. how would you like your name to be spelt?

lick your name pelt. the save now button
keeps wonking the screen up and I've gotted better at being a person.
it has to do with less sharp edges, more rounding up.

the new humanism will not be capitalized. will be the color of the waves and the crest, the fallen grasses.

so in another number of minutes sleep.
and tomorrow.

11:08

and it's AM.
i am.
coffee-to-get. class-to-teach (if teaching can be classed--can being, can beets).
train-to-catch. lost-to-watch (writers can't confuse the dead, can dead--being, halve been).
bed-to-sit.

no jokes to make. no kola or koala. stuff too serious. and now it's time to make a wish :::: 4 ones.

To the 8 of you

Who come across this blog--Flying Guillotine Press is having an open reading period during the months of April. April is more than one month. abril.
Seriously, from today until the 30th (30 days has september, april, june...) we will be accepting chapbook length collections to read and see if we want to make them into books. Check out the FGP blog for more info and email the manuscripts to flyingguillotinepress@gmail.com if you want to.

This is no hoax.