This Song for the littlest steps of dove the dove of my blouse is dirty my house is dirty the parlor is a dovemouth, off-colored with dust and whatnot. The dove of my treading is dark and picks things up like bread. My dove does the doings and receives the news rolled up and wet and …
I don’t usually venture into the world of chapbook fabrication outside of the Dusie kollektiv, but I took a few weeks to make Paul a chapbook for Christmas. I sketched these critters over and over until they mildly resembled animals.
we worry weary on the wire / pair of owls glasses hapless arbitrators / already pumpy feathers / hell / have me your claw and I will sip it / punch play like airy other night/ we fowl respectively crepuscular / it swoll tonight tints as bursts an aureole around the city/ it was, it was …
it rained today so lightly on my elbows i took this picture. the cows sleep against the hills. there.
He said I saw this skunk roll on the balls of an elliptical Downbeach where wheeled it down this downy flare I remember this story for shit without stippling the letters ever after in asterisks clawing the bland sand. Shore birds, sure. My mother was one, as I am a hamper for my own swooping devices still-new to this type of …
the horses break/they horses / break into bed, two reek : addendum/bits/flies. They weeeee as we was as egg as broke & mighty Porous & still- warm, we raked hours across our sores. O pins: we said the hairs of the lord harnessed our hearts/parkas/feeling …
feathers far be they herons talking talking diminishing ground eunuch the beat me where ground go weary heretofore oversensitive gestures hectare get me tourniquets paper towels nail filings hip ships
swallow low windup heart thing swallow fly over the coffeeshop little black middlefold heart prop on my back of the boat a turner-over a dark card flipping up you swallow up the moment is only over for a moment a swallow skedaddles a slitted pair of shorts lady braces her handbag having never seen what …
One out of every three turtles even swimming is one in one out of one one turtle his black back up is even keel, smooth is as it turtles to, fro one fin at times fin as ever swip on-ward ponder he is a shoe in turns on takes off it spits heaven knows whose thoughts are whose chewing in murky glaze what a tuner one is turning the radio on after noon radio on
god said secrets are stupid and then he created earth he flushed one for number one two for two he made a buzzard machine he folded the sea together he unfolded it gave us architecture, word, made us wait for what he created lies he hallowed his own name when you think about it he …
Hey bay for us today & carrion the market collapses takes us in / grants one dance one only see us newt bright green collapse the little air therein rays of heaven headed us are hairs / ends / days / mists / pale discrepancies. us stands for us …
come more rings the bees blue/reflective barely sees these pews tussle
(affluent muttering halo.) hello swan. it scissors in, blasting spit, twits, errors / flanked by picnic pterodactyls tables Trumpeteer, cover me with lichen. you cover me. imp ire bread island sorry story, diminutive spaghetti my ears are anointed orange they are lima beans, puddles puddles in my gutters telling me every time, every evening even when …
The gravel steps shaking their pigeons, o– bobble there buddy. This perfect par, place it on the lake, the grey weight whining lakelight is a square underfooted are my doves my dove blouse aroused amongst instituted parlor heads dove in many dark picnicing weasel doings and doves of news inside beans, tidings look at this duvet they make the dim lip …
cow cow cow onesies ringing the tree pre- storm: time being tambien the form of a thing is the thing eating at the ground, says I dot I speaking betwixt clumps of fescue flanking the steps, in accordance w/ C. Olson, kind of a cow himself, six ft in brown trousers how now he isn’t …
o right where you are, on the savannah or behind a clobbering of books. Or pussy- footing a slick heap of azaleas, a bee- tle in your midst * published in Little Red Leaves 2
I don’t deny you, nor do you fit into my thinking about things right now. This is the real world. Your name was Tenney. I did not tend to you as I should have. It was night and I threw you into the garbage behind my house. I know I should have buried you. In …
I have blowy new skirts in the closet of my perpetual ramming and your hamstring strung from the wire tower. Damsel, you say and hey, I’m neither white nor wrought nor budding. The handy switch of your choosing shishes across my nether regions. It burrs. Outside, the seconding of birds at swim in the drastic …
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 …
..the cats are in …. little buckets they break … the bags they are in …. they kill lizards pigeons . lots of moths and beetles . cicadas circa dove eggs … in the nest on the bull . (ricotta) donned on the door . they are in ………… the elbows of trees ……littered with …