troweling monday

in two words, the roll out. a crest and current to halve a woman. bad omens for sailors include the start of a voyage, dead bodies, a bird that corrects its flight path. the week is begging to start. you collect your shins and the early morning dark. priests are unlucky, the cast of a moon over an open bottle. you cannot stand the sound of gulls. you fill your pockets with familiars. you wear a stark green shirt and the grass comes up in clippings.

the news is good for once. the new is calling out flat water. a full steam type of heading and you arrive with all the dust behind. built of rail, a continent of industry that one tries to latch quick to. you hammer out the wrinkles and spread thin the ringing, the rig, the blown open door. and the merchants will have no shame, and the window will crow at noon, and the last flower blooms and blooms.

spilt leaving

split leaves the poppies bare

Raked into Evening

the spacing the days take, i'd take pictures and post some semblance how

the pacing the day stake, to set wood into the chest
back in slats, the way of holding a treasure: one heart gold, the next leaden, the fourth a mirror of questions

it is raining or about to rain.
the green shutters eye their closed window.
in another hour the churches will shake off mounds of pigeon.

in the museum the art work strikes
after dinner

a comatose crowd of foreigners sets about boarding a bus--lines of luggage hunched on the sidewalk
I am hopeful

minus signs and waving

After the 4th

do not count your young animals
as the start of monstering

the plate like faces sneer
on screen. it is hot here

and sleep come down premium
or siphoned off the cloudbanks

please lose your hands after
your curses, children

of the incessant complaint
there is no hearing foreign ear

or skinfold rimmed with salt
to hide inside, only the pigeonclap

and walking, the tourist trap
and bathroom stall poetry:

suck socal's cook
we're all americani

good job jeter
bosox best twin

cities for the issue
of a tissue.

I'll sweat in peaces, pacing these
streets and think of ancient

cadences--or at least old photographs
and how wrong it was to ever be young.

shapes in place / (in) equal signs

this towel is attacking you
and all there is to do
is make the words oh sound
like they're meaning
different things.

chip bent of vents
and the cats look angry at each other.

this is a newer form of being where we decide to claw and jump
onto over ontover
watch the spaces grow skinny between
and sweet it airs out however.

when the towel attack happens we dream like scores of dull kitchen utensils
and the more it happens the more it wraps us up in warm and warp

it's a grainy so

bonds up & down its lettered lines