Midwestern Life 11:19 PM

That which a midwestern life wrought;
unclaimed dignity of a hard fought living yet

not bloody-handed slaughterhouse work,
what failing a third coast left is that surety

that the blood forthcomes.

Flu 2:25 PM

The flu short-shrift of kindling.
For as a fever goes
the body follows, straining
after the healthy ineptitude we all know.

Wading, thinking always
of the pant leg.
Is this the hairsbreadth
to threadbare? Clearly

each use diminishes
the usefulness. Rack
of greenware
having gotten wet; wick

drowning itself in wax
and is extinguished.
Once mendicant
in a sea of other mendicants

until possession breadth
comes back up.

Self Death 5:02 PM

Soulmate, dividend.
Lover of nothing, liver

of life leaving, daughter
of Ungoliant and Nought. Yet

leeching sweetness
from the air.

Such is the toothache's will.
Supplanting

the patriotic devices
of Enlightenment with

magic, we are a well-fed
throng of penitents; livery lifters,

india ink drinkers,
takers of popped-off buttons

from the half-pint mason jar
where things like that are kept.


Absurdity quadrupled,
love leavened,

maven exemplified
unto unintentional self death.

Fruit Flies in the Bathroom 11:10 AM

Not cleanliness
nor it's long absence.
Fruit swoll
with sweetness,

time tacked
to ripeness
and is temporal
and attendant

what,
flocking up to greet you,
in threes, bodies balloons
of sickly orange-green.

Small, yet antiseptic
forces
brought to bear
there

and there and there.
Until orderliness gives
way
to fruit flies in the bathroom.

the New Poem 3:47 PM

I would employ a tool would and make work
but have pause to think.

Sweet-corn silk
riven into furrows  or salt.

Situated that new poem
on a walk

over a berm of cold
soil and husks. And

it is presumably
still going.


Whether the prospectuses
piled upon themself

is not bellwether
yet.

Whether the cloud kept
riding the horizon, &

saucily laid the far side
waste in rain

shadows, tumbling,
drawn over that round side

past the last door on left
is a real mess.


Feeding young
is feeling deft as if

the obstacle course life
climbed out

of card tables and casserole
dishes. And of the appeal

of the cold porch.

We Quite Mean 3:50 PM

Not the full bell. Yes
okay the full bell.

One good one left, which
was a honed one once

wither the hand's watch.
Not due liberty, not

off with the fringe that.
Congeniality attendant.


Recidivist of the heart,
nonesuch sustainable

as the roof, no paper
or draught, no kidneys,

ovaries, lungs, thumbs.
We quite mean, love.

More bad olives, and
pretty sure picking

through clavicle thinner
on the left than it once was.


To the seafaring life:
not. Not yet, at least.

We rise: swell. Fall too.
Night gasp, whole chest

a sweat slick. Detritus
of one room life, time left.

Stones and staves,
a place with no hallways

but ad hoc rooms attached,
differentiated ceilings.

Stone, thatch, styrofoam
tile. I accrue a lot, like

everyone, such that I
have got more than I need

to leave this high school
of infinity, and yet do not.

a Mountain Slope 8:14 PM

If feeling eggs
and sowing oats
and nationalism for it's sake

green growth
triangle accident. Not
falling down a mountain slope

but not climbing fully up it.

Sapphat 12:56 PM

Sapphat, latinate
greek which broke.
And lo did this day
and week not go off.

Turn of the fruit. Dark
in at you. Apples as
fast as will. Branch
which, poem. Where

at most there is an
out in animals; it goes.
The story to leave is
not completely. Returned

a true loving-sense.
Talks of a down fighting
word. Feels experience
broken. Story turned,

love leaving. To paraphrase,
say the sharpest thing
quietly. Parting from
friend and teacher

of which an emotion
is the opposite. Standard
usage refers to this passage,
meaning doubled. Terribly

we have multiple meanings:
deep feelings, all the
possibilities there is,
great sadness superimposed,

this compressed, no way
out but separate intent.
Girls has been speaking
love we had. Neck and touch,

girls loose, comfort and
tearfulness mixed. This
. . . .lovingness, unknown
which is good. Pointed, her.

Whereas young boy aright
pleasures, as equals, by
a society their own. So
shown as knit. And even

awareness, which pitches.

Consonance 8:49 PM

Seemingly sea, ipecac river.
"Mother, I am a ditherer."

"Lifted the livery from the livid;
said: 'Ecstatic: Look At.',"

which was of course titular
and yet less florid rosacea than

sitting in a bath of epsom.


If I could whet some moderate
mess in the corner, raise an ear

—yes, sound a clarion
of hops and ash; only.


If I weatherer, never near. But
for offal, bed sores, consonance.

"I" 8:35 PM

"I" will carry a candle for you.
A leg over or two.

Metaphor of extended pain did once;
rose wielding cunt.