When I am making waste of my vision, seeing as how it’s tinsel and leaves, I blow through times I was nearer and dearer to posie and land plop on this rotten desk amongst the everybody-things. The things I know poetry isn’t. The worms that eat my lips. Sense of air in my mouth, having …
A little lot of plumcake. A layer a little like a pushpin. A stinky and often miscarried remainder. I have no heart for it. O it! so marked I don’t know the reassurances I make to myself. I lay my little bitty in position. Softly, softly coughing the cuter to see me so whitely and …
Losing the day to coffee, altogether altering the makeup of my motherboard, my motherbearing, my mothermail. Penny Puddles Pendergast. Day being the blamee. Day sans glory. Day on the workhorse, see horse, as all that is decidedly yonder floats past. That bomb is weak and brown. My skydrive is syncing. Blessed Day, let us …
Continuation. The hook and tongue of day. The waggedy that. Lapse, clasp. The lace of days in utter continuation. The smalls and mediums and larges. Largess. Pants around my mother’s ankles while trying it on. The grooves in love like a golf ball. As it resists its own specificity. As it becomes crocodilian, recording it …
Days of men who have loved the earth and the atmosphere, the discomfort of trees lining the lake, hooks in fog. Days of men not to worry. Whose rain freezes on the windows like tulle. Whose horses hump. Whose rubbings work around our history of days wearing handsome coats. Down fall our trouser days. Portland …
I am headed to the northwest side of the cityside. The side of the city least felt, fibrous. A folder of bones sewing my city. A folder of gravel. A folder of clay. A burning as the burning of choice has its center. It checked off, chosen, called on to sing. Sing The Prayer, sang …
With any luck, we can make a mark or notch. Comb the totem for messages against us. The day bright, stalled light, placards driving us for words. The bus. The bee on the bus seat, a little splendid. The knees that are folded upward. The children with their fingers. The coup. This, with all it’s …
Blessed the pilot program, ramming thru. Pilot Days and tenebrous flyers. Cold air cutting under wingy for-realers. The pilot light hole, blinging and blinging. Hole in the heart of the damp clothy clouds. Sound. His voice sounds like, in the ears of my huskiness. How did you grow up so, bro? His bass voice flubbing …
Give us this day our daily tiger snakes, their laces placed in pockets of night. These longer, more slender limbs made swimming, into modified water, for hotter or colder. Pleasantly whirled. A circle of sleep. Hey little doggie, I should have danced with you. Made you mine in this frightening huckleberry light.
Blessed Days they swinged, singed! Days in retirement, sitting soundly bitch in November. Grow time. My will is getting willier, leafier; a here unherded, grazing sweet, sweet-hearts all up in this pasture. Cheaply and chirpy [you herd me], my cattle head that-a-ways, brown cattleproof Cattle. Hoof marks the holler of yellower grasses, of time’s light hair, parallel blues. Hey little doggie, I should have …
Days of salt of earth of trees and cows. Days ringing the blackest bell, triangular bell, on the day it was said we sat down to eat. Days ministering ropes to holy waters. I see them in. them, thru. The white pads of fluff piled on the wake. For christsake. To have us some lineage. …
Blessed economy of days plus or minus. The dowager days, corn on the cob. Day one again. Day one again. Day one again. If i had an orchard, I’d work ’til I’m sore. Many admitted and many declined. Days of eerie jections. Cheese sticks. Wowzers.
Blessed turkey, blessed ham. Blessed hammer in my head & days fishing. Which side of the dock will we fish the most fish on? Which seat rains the most rain the further and further back we drive? Sheets of days smelling slightly of mildew. Wraparound porches that wrap around France. I have a thing in …
that all thinking is fraught I reckon with work, with perturbations in the shale of friendship, with hailing and calling on the hail to break us down. With the kinship of ever outlying areas of expertise. Synergy, bitches. With the precision of compliments offsetting any general malaise that forms on my head rashy and whammo. There it is. My …
A roost, a rosters of days. 77 bodies. The day after paired with the day before.
Home. Park. Moon. Light. The moss on all things felt, green, stink. The wet and blow dry. The shitting of birds on my hair. Blessed are the work weeks, on the shoulders of clients, in the always-cold inside, sucking it up. The portions I made up. The skimming of days, the perpetual download, the yearly …
The days made ancient with wind. Our armories unleash secret chambers. Knives in the lawn. Railroad ties aloft in the swamp cooler of days, evaporative spray, watching a huge poodle walked thru dusty streets. Tucson, down dog. A muff of cicadas, a couple beers. Bless this laundry on the bed. To be folded days. To …
Blessed are the horsey days, the gay stringy days, the horse in your court, tennis days, the surefire ride home thru wildernesses neither dense nor trim, wan sun setting on my trophy days. Blessed the days before, sweater sets, pay, the more and less playing out in narrow parameters, parking garages, they apply themselves and …
Blessed are the horsey days, the gay stringy days, the horse in your court, tennis days, the surefire ride home thru wildernesses neither dense nor trim, wan sun setting on my trophy days. Blessed days before, wet pleather days, unpaid, the more and the less. They play out in narrow parameters, in parking garages, they …