Saturday, April 2, 2011


no ideas butt in
things you can't help
but think about--

The quality of water reportedly repeated
in poems the new yorker publishes

one can guess brackish, thorough

is the listing a series of pauses a form
of entrance or do we inherit
the stalls our thoughts program--see the source
is master and the master is a set of chairs
empty behind a curtain--strong must rising

One fires their friends after
years of groveling for affinity
and on
with the tempering of metals
softer than the teeth. Tuned radios, too, command
attention. What's received, what's blasted
from the pill gun and shushed beneath
the table's cloth. Food in scraps and tapping.

It takes 5 minutes for the water to drain effectively
from the page. All the words a-smear and mention of forestry
in ranges of syllabic meter will not help.

To mend the floorboards or the industrial fan
might require a sketch
to compile its parts for fixing. And fists
are not good instruments to bludgeon
with. I learned this from fiction--another use of the forearm...
there's less intricacy there, or the forehead.

But drawing requires a deftness
that can be turned over
at least a dozen times while sleeping.

Remove all references to lakes
and swimming from your life
or reconsider the use of fins in film.

The use of fans in blading,
the use of floors in waiting.

A separated body pours into the glass.
A need in noon to track heads fast
down the draintrap.

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