6:52

try the temple
are they eating
dogdogdogdogcardogcarcat

here is the song
and here is the dancing
one thing will make another
mean more if it's placed correct--

are you busting at the seems?
sea am, shore. watch the walls

go stale-ing
it's not the more
you swallow, it's the whale you get
whole. and spout, one loves to leave.

ok the cat's dreaming now, i can see
its paws knead.
the next one will be
fore the worst way to make a forum
is by asking along the questions,
same sames the same.
ones won the ones.

and to stop scratch, apply water
in heaps. aptly, water ain't easy.

11:18

in the compartment to back through the neighing a sumpthin, the packs were savory. here's a voice, here's an apartment with old carpets climb through the highway to get back sorting into a weekswalk. think of the mansions in newport and what someone pressed so hard against an iron fence the snapbacked chairs are making a comeback and all worry can be traced to momentary lapses of motion and congruity. i mean it's easy to dance like your suit is an animal you're trying to save from the formal dissection that often happens at parties. but the corporeal is just another space. and the other people are being surrounded as we speak, this foal cannot make legs look more or less clumsy. two solid poles dance at the edges of this planet i am pulling the legs of the table back and forth and you are mentoring the deckwalkers in gull charts. the grip we have. the suitable clobbering that happens to clothes after. i will attend the lighthouse against its better suitors and defend maturity from my non-slip footwear. Here's a cookie and ranking system. Here's the list of all those things we thought we wouldn't see. in the store window a pair of plastic swans. at the table, strangers.

9:10

how to start a parade

the cat’s near the chicken barn, say
‘cat’ a thousand times
until you don’t recognize
the slits of its eyes through
the crease of the door of the ‘a’ in its belly
letting light up
on the birds. the feather lines
will lead straight to a fowl heart
plucked from the chest
of one of the hens
like a flower,
a beating gift.

9:04

Two shorts--one from yesterday since I didn't post

forget me
not the creeping
of traffic as it strings

the welts
we cut out
of fruit

a sign on the door
says only one
person at a time

it spills us
together into
the empty lobby

6:52

from yesterday...

home on the lam

ore renamed
the part where
you place your junk

it heaps all over the room
maybe you thought junk meant
what you keep in your pants

or the trunk
that hands out signs in front
of the elephant, but I’m not buying it.

in essential nature, the clam
is nothing more than
a lickable burrower

take your friends for a walk
and see the new statues
made of presidents

our nation’s capital made
easy to grab at—just
love someone wealthy

the newest form of living is found
dead on the seaway
and salt will make its home

anywhere the wind takes it. this could
be a way to continue. this could
be the winter.

5:40

This if from this morning--forgot to post yesterday's bit...will do that later on this evening


the signature is a new average

take to the hills with your walking and sticks
all the animals won’t bother to meet you here

nondescript pastoral experience gloats over
the film of your eyes, a reel burning there in the light

sing your favorite song quietly while commuters
also sing their favorite cursewords

god loves a man in shoulderstrapped gun
loves the angry carriage of noon

high-beams traipse across the median
as the warp-speed snow gathers brown

it seams onto the edges of the causeway
over these abandoned townships the sky limps

each doorframe a measuring block
for removal--what sound crisps

in the fame cage is not the youth gone wild
it is the lack of pinholes in the bottom

of a beer can that makes the liquid stable
and a whole case of ponies is calling

from the trunk and our better judgement
loses to the distances we travel

and where we set each heart is a trophy
and the land will get us there

we just need to erase our way through

8:12

behind the times

I will die in a fort of strapture, fit with laughing
I will die without punctuations or monetary curbs, cures, curves

I will die in a town named after
I will die a thousand times a sparrow, but once a corvus

I will die with my love bound up in books
I will die with my hand bloated and trapped in ink

I will die in the eyes of my wife’s fast blinking
I will die in the throat of my schoolchild as she learns her alphabets

I will die in the band sounds stilled beneath the metal bleachers
I will die in the keys of the janitor and the pressed pedals of the upright piano

I will die on a midwinter’s day and on the afterpolice shot of summer—walking on the moon
I will curl up into smoke and Dramamine and the goats will eat their cans and chew the grass
sprigs from my sockets

I will die with my family’s crest—a series of spaces between the waves
I will die in the cornucopia of a faltering national identity

I will die tomorrow and tomorrow and the rest of them will come to take you to bed
I will die a manor and campfire

I will die on the off-ramp of an odd numbered highway with salt still frosting the lines
I will die with my wife’s fear of dropping out of the sky and my own fear of finding another me inside these dreams I’ve signed

I will die of long-in-the-tooth, of rickety-rails, or choose-your-own-adventure laid out for adults
I will die sweating inside a handshake, the palm and fishlike

I will die in every curtain of lakewater interpreted as a walkable ice-way