error as one begins thinging “insinuendos” & “elbow people” Git off me error / wronger topper render one fling flat yes flat get some or water , error ah kin sips drinky error you have to have to tag it / is filamentous or dirt on it there point here/s looking at you piddle, this not pipe …
Photoshop is taking so long and I’m thinking of you. The remnants of a shattered weed on the road. I am a-thinking about the tassels’ purl. What wrongs on the envelope of the mountain? Supine, prone, the placemats.
Hello Artaud. I found you in my links and digress to put up this, between what I started with you and how now, without a word to register. I walk into the room and the sweat. This is the suggestion, overriding my concern for you, the angle of my jaw in silence–how it hurts. I …
are behind ourselves; the words are turtley. They’ve made all sorts of holes. I have moths on me and tossings in. Same with timbre, the born air, the blowing of french horns through the veranda. Behind us. Look.
there and there are the roses, tongues of roses and inside bugs. The raised lace curtains pertaining to roses, winter placings of rose on the earth. Snow spreads like a plate on and on it the roses there are are there.
per say. The activities women do in the wash. Dust coloring the tips of their noses. They are fair enough, light, we sign smoke and we no go and we wrench in any direction as if it pinches.
as many as glasses hold, up to the light, sounding so in the barrels of brandy, as it is, its bottles mottled in dirt. My unsteadiness is bed. To drink and drink in, fooly the body of this. The hard chord of one impulse. I pressed a sour pear to my mouth in spite of …
and its signs proper force the morning out of its hitch. I am to you like a rummage of geese. The white bolt undoes us, our tank cracks, and geese are in store on the corners. Hi there, Denver. Hi ways.
snow so spent. An evening in the valley. The stags small as black flowers shaking their hair. These Portraits. Of small holes, you said, and I followed through with it. No need to stop. I talked the entire downward feeling.
warm. Trippingly dear, my dress is bed. A place for hard remainders, severance, impatiens and blitz der fleurs. This leaf and awn, the ruby rings, the weight of my mother’s hands, dig.
and I do. I do. His white dog drawing the leash. Pieces of moth light swing from the lamp. Mice. A paperboy bangs his hat on the stoop. This dark under a dress. This.
small from this far. Parting the windows on Sunday. Popping out. From then on calling distant as sparrowprints: he cannot tie things to his mind. What flails, his hands in here his hair where things left off, is not right. And people calling, small as sticks, up to him. Something, He does not hear.
to every day things. Our claws on the white table. Like dishes I wish you would just do. Making becomes, you said, outside. And once outside, we refuse. We wrap ourselves in wire.
a large pair of scissors. Two eyes, two holes, big enough for his fingers. I would shear the field sighing over the surface of words. Flat yes flat. I would slip my hands underneath the new world and ask if snow is instead. If this is what we said. * earlier version published in Cab/Net …
seeds or shapes cut from paper. If he chewed through snow like that. If newspaper bangs the door each morning and I turn around like he is doing now and rise * published in Cab/Net 2
he sleeps on the rack. Wears chains on his head like a wig. Then I touch to his hair. [Move over.] Move through the time like a radio. I wheeze like a radio into his ear * published in Cab/Net 2
hoof the roots at dusk. Soon. It dims the eyelets of trees, swayings, a scree of lights I watch work across the black hills, gleaning. Certain birds scissor the poplars and counting them now is kind of balancing, we certainly did, fitting the bright snow into a holster. I held you to mountains and to …
like our bodies are together. Hands, white where they are. A thing of hands. To me he says Misses and I don’t know what to do. This dark underaddress. This.
of it sits. On a night like this. With no human shape. Snow goes down to death out there. I read Thel and it goes down. The train comes, the doors go down, a box of meat drops on the snow
and his dying sinks like snow. Like spit and glue, who drinks it. Who would not like to know? That after dinner he poured out. Lighting each piece of snow on the windowsill, he placed an empty glass on the windowsill