fourteen of us

- my line go how it works contra fidgets & umbrage for the sake of asking

- a long way home put me together fearful for the hell of it

- is someone a father trepid & in on it ghosty on the edges written by

- brilliant made me of light & eager to get a friend on the record

- my line go on of whom in personality he shimmered & quipped 'to write'

- stressors like the whole of it in good judgments we are a reply & had to be tough

- we are a reply and had to be thick as the barkers forming up carnivals

- the line go forth a bridle path birdbath a flickered nuisance to say

- help me up to wisdom towers to push me off the windy tops the lungs

- or lunges out a grab at the crumbling score he'd have to find the point

- my voices go on top where the waves fit sky just right without blinking by

- thrown it away to the clown's corner inside red & unjust as a giant bug

- my line go sooner on than a vanish than a whip than a long sour clock runs

- or just stop it after one more breath your legs may find work at the pedals

thoughts about poetic practice that call to mind the hours of sitting in grade school and high school and college classrooms where he hid between the lines of assigned texts and whispered out from them something like well here you are at last

the same poem the same poem the same poem

the same poem the same poem the same poem

the same poem the same poem the same poem

the same poem the same poem the same poem

the same poem the same poem the same poem

the same poem the same poem the same poem

the same poem the same poem the same poem

the same poem the same poem the same poem

the same poem the same poem the same poem

last in class

you are reading and not reading. while eating

you brought your broken imagination. in full

you can't pretend there's not a line but. at the end

you knew there was only one comprehension. compressed

you sped through the disorganized. and split

you were that forest with ocean's accent. at once

you never say 'vomit" in a poem. omit it

you go because I can't say anything. I say


take the test take it and over again take the test

maybe we'll have learned at last how to have to at last

an arc

derivative of the crudest things,

neo-crud, meta-blurg, it could be

one thing or another. enchanting

well, hark, there's a word and a

bunch of them then flatter rules

a photography of pages normally

or merely intellectual not some

blended material goop. ecstatic.


of course

you needed to say I you did

but it was obviously still

a friendly voice we needed

to picture hearing someone

for orientation and for re-

assurance the codes went on

long into the night without

us not that this is anyone

me speaking to you not that

a mountain walks into a bar

and calls me a liar I guess

that’s right you needed to

say this lacks intimacy as

a feeling here’s another one

in the cold room with me not

reading not forcing weather

into its own perfect frame

how to know him

No one is reading dreams. Blueprints

will have something to like say any

poem might collapse into these next

vague things. Did he really say that

our stoned beginnings were crushing

the next and the next chances for a

neo-baroque revival? And when did he

think we'd finally wake to his silly

request for a carbonated beverage? I

think he's part of the plan for good—

a parcel of inability. We'll let it be.

nine items

breaking the law just

that there’s a space or a little room

for this other


“and its main purpose is to benefit the wealthy”

willing wanting waiting for a god who

has a hell & knows how to use it


you must be about something essential

beyond these disconnections

but why when the nightclouds listen for bats


when anyone’s demonic pronouncing

spills over into stable authoritatives about

why bother with all this


the judge said another habit “was very bad”

and we understood him to mean a snobbery

had taken hold of the young man


that one part lost puts me “at a loss”

where’s the sense a fat gourd skillfully recites

“season of mellow fruitfulness” and itches


the world-story practically begs for

a description of race in tart lemony vanishing ink

not yet commercially available


a quorum of bearded young men wordlessly

announces the sanctity of was it

a dreadful nineteenth century proposition


it’s terrible hard to catch some good way back

every inch a blessed broken way

a permeable cartography a will

ten sentences

clip it present it you won’t need to say it


a grief goes uselessly past the daily yeses


distinct as a causal casualty a casual tear


what’s capable of bad phrase after bad word


what’s the word for this after being someone


never found the voice for the gender’s real


maybe a little touched by an occasional one


it takes the place of a form that would have


the old when the old were old a funny tale


the wild too happy to be there young an egg


tough in autumn

one whole thing whose wild geese

were you. afraid.

for that charm did you think

poets put away

their other life to have read

with mother’s insight.

what a thing now for sex

in the air.

but the geese hardly came crawling

refused our groan

our embarrassing cuts maples gone bright

as far verse.

notes a distance where they were

as not anything.

the body

Living inside an illegible part of the world you’d get busted by the beauty every time. You’d have nothing to say because the wrong profile. Far from them always. Understand it’s been a mistake so long you take it for your own tree your own shade. And the storms man. The storms take it up to the limit and farther on. Just because they can but they shouldn’t. Like you saying what comes to mind because you have one. Ears too. But then here’s the next real quiet part. And that goes on long and long.

 You read enough about these arts and there goes the willow tree there goes the strong sun. How even the words will disappear. You find the brook and seize the day. We find you under stones in the mossy parts hoping in the muddy creases for something to show like a savior. It’s the silence it likes. Then figures. Not yet.

by the end

We were talking about big artists and how they always forget to eat they’re so into it whatever they’re doing then they go to sleep. They dream and paint in their dream and they make lots of love all the time in their dreams and yeah sometimes in their real lives too but how would we know. We’d just imagine. We’d be rich enough to buy something eventually, but then we wouldn’t care as much. So something would have been lost. For always. Or maybe we’d never be rich so we’d always have this burning sensation as if the world were a range of brilliance and interest in motion or singing. Alive you know still inside our desire. And we’d tell each other where to look. And we’d want to eat whatever we saw. It was that kind of life we had. Not the working poor but tough enough. Ants with ideas or a certain taste not butterflies. We’d go on until we couldn’t. We had to.

We were saying they can get away with anything. Not that anything goes except in the pretty sayings of Cole Porter. More likely that nothing goes probably in our own sphere of influence that’s it. Who wrote “Can’t Get Started” then sat at the piano and sang it from start to finish with a really apt memento mori in the last few bars. But the world’s a big curtain for them or at least a clean or grubby sheet. Maybe the wind has a way with it. Maybe they have to ball it up and cart it off in the laundrybarrow. There’s nothing you shouldn’t say since a brave impression isn’t much better than what the news brings up. Dinner comes early this time of year and I’d eat it as they serve it. All up if I were you.


this remarkable something says breath outside the body

admires its own landing sites first then it takes you

over for a second just the way kids and leaves on the

street will shadows will you notice they’re never warm

by nature or in person they’re significant as they say

in the existence of a poem made of how muscles push us

out i mean how they push these out these these figures