flashing wings that bark

so in the light of having my students do the automatic, i figure it's worth trying out the hat for a bit. it's easy to contradict oneself in the morning, the way the pajamas make fun of everything around them.

I'm a wall for walking and this half sandwich won't quit balling itself up.
Maybe not, the gears seem to stick when everything that's made water rushes around. In three days it will be stars like a forest above us. Inside my favorite parts are the sky. Grand and handsome a stadium for what we can't know. Keep popping the corn, keep handles on the stovetop and your hat in the mirror for when you need to take it off. a whole room of ghosts etched into the paper--Bowie says the bewlay brothers is like a parchment and so song tuning groped out like seas and seas of sirens and no sailors drowning. I keep saying we like I know you. And this is another way of brining a body back up from the ground. Wanton, shaky fingers dusted and printed. A sway to the blood. A bay to erase with the sweep of a palm. Don't forget.
Don't.

And shuffle. And walk.

the flung in the moth of it

swords in all the dreaming. some alarm, but not b-larm. harm.

so i'm trying to get my students to let go of their consciousness a little bit. this surrealism course. and a couple of them seem to want to stay very much in control of their thoughts. it's going to be interesting to see if and when they step back from that position. and i've got to get my feet soundly somewhere into what feels like ground. that's slow mechanics though.

last night's sleep was made from pitted fruit. a basket worn to edge out a flood. spit and shine on the moon's dark behind. a lap of crumbs for the television viewing and i fail to mention current events because they'll stop being crowded with noise as soon as we forget them. first in line for this, a book of sayings--they erase themselves as they're mumbles. mouth marbled and stony. for the tour of france, keep the ticket you got with your umbilical cord--its a stamp on the blood or a courting with butter the things you eat in the morning.

i'll sort out the shirts and the daggers but only dream in monochrome when sleep comes down off its rocker and sips the whiskey flavored water that grunts from these faucets. shiny fixtures and plants that are drunk with their grain. simple pleasure is and is and is.

you are the rock i am thankful on. happy tuesday.

Here's where the stop comes to start

wish the snow was headlike, shaped in all of water's dreams.

if you stand on your couch and portals form between the space your head touches and that shadows make out to be the edge of the room--a border, say--does that make the ground a piece of inhabitance or the hat you're wearing imaginary since it's a job description and also something people post about themselves when there's little occupying their fingers?

and what makes the border of a room?

all i've got is questions and this ring pop. mt imagination made of paper and pistols of mistyping. the sound loud in an ear when water drains and to regain balance then. my friends are birding the telephone noise. a new type of ink for your hair to settle down with and make a furlough, a future.

and what separates the room from ebbing?



such-like-noises are similar to light as we witness its decay. listen to the radio for ancillary motives. if you can, say anything once this is all over. but it doesn't come to that. rush and rush and bristle.

the elbow is an achy machine

four hours of laundering and all the money comes
back to a pocket singing of its handlers

so it went with a new year
and we were blessed and blowsy in our new threads

weather always threatened to break
the calf in its field worried away the grass with its cute
face--distant noises of what would press against
its older head

but this purpose you speak of, this coupling
and trick of light

we bury our heads with frightening sounds
our finger blinds open slowly.

two ducks flap
over each ear
of corn
rows beyond
where the cows are
sleeping

my house is not
a furrowed thing

Belated--bag this!

Bring that beat back

Today is the cold. And a few days ago a friend had a dream that I died.
Today I thought maybe that's already happened. And things are good.
Today is the cold. And tomorrow is the day when no one gets fired.
Today I thought maybe hats are ready vapid. Anhinga for roods.

Tomorrow I will walk to the station with my back planter
and you will get up on top of a balloon somehow with the cameras
all pointing down and away from this spectacle. The news
will shine like new candy wrappers and no one will get caught

in a storm. Today is the cold. In north of here it beats people
into their homes more and here it does that, too. The dogs are leading
their owners. Their owners are carrying bags in their hands--
some for the trash, some to bring home. The dogs are home anywhere

so long as there's food. Tomorrow everyone will wake up hungry.
Tomorrow for dogs on loan from the schools. And the Today show.
Today is the cold.

when you make cards the snow comes