Setting the Red Pennon

These bright horizons are a different kind of maze
that we cannot see, because now is absent of it,
mostly grey cloud smeared up in a pompadour
of anger in the waning sky. And a stone tower set
upon the coastal ridge there, ravaged by the saline
air, and waves and storms that hit upon it.

They set out a red pennon, the bloke from the
authorizing committee or some old pensioner, or a
recipient of some inheritance. The lawn bowed
down before the face south, grew steadily and
by design or inaction covered everything. The sea
blue or grey, and the sky both, and the lawn.

We (edit)

moving awkwardly
in the summer of
idolatry.

The body made
memory more
vivid

than the declaration
in wood no
deeper excavated.

The calm pool;
followed the grain
drank mead

follow the swallow
of reeds moving
sickly from

their stems, their
roots beneath
them. Agrestic

motions fade
and grow;
flow the way the oceans flow.

That fight felt
deeper after fire,
moved, but went

nowhere. The gist

Soft tee-shirt not
bought, but found
later. And wear it

for no reason, but
old cotton
on flesh.

The great wake
up, hungover it seemed
then without drink

and no sense
of additions, no
medicinal herbs,

no primrose.

Coffee in a French Press

We both sit in the kitchen, you
make coffee in a french press.

How could one not want this
from life. The body remainder

is a sense there of absence. Bright
lights in the presence of evidence.

Why withering wife making
breakfast for the both of us

is a thing made up in the mind. I will
shudder in delight at what's mine.

Golden Penny

I've got this golden penny burnished
sheening and the bubbling up liquid
(who was thin, but now's viscous) that
brought it to fore

And I lift it, and glanced by the ray of
some glare—Whose seen, and whose
skip tripped up and missed us—this
discus of credit

Immorality

This is immorality, is making the tips
of my fingers come off in skinny flakes
from the inside out, where cowardice
domains. Where the fuck's my metal
sheet from Streets and Sanitation? Do
I somehow not pay these taxes
of endurance?

Old Designs

The overwrought workout
like Polaroid bands of flat
and chromatic colors place
the box back there. In that time.

And the black metal desk too
scattered with paperclips and
chrome finishings. These NY
birds that chirp outside are all.

What with when, reflexivity. X
equals X. Matters of tense, or
in case, or agreement matter
not. Or equally, and only in

degrees. This sudden cool
spring breeze, grows and fades.
Is the sun and evaporation
thats feeding what moves it.

And the sun is hot, and it aides
in the making the vapor commit.

We War

Tactile weaponry
with a timer that counts
down for days. And the
Old Colours are
converging in a prism
and backing out together.

The old rules've
reset themselves but're
constant exploding.

Your arms drew
to your sides
in a shiver of delight
or cause it's chilly. I
am the shirtsleeves that
strain towards the wrists,
and wish that the goose
bumps would leave.


Smooth and waiting
is the countenance of
this handsome horse
alit, encased in velvet
reams blood red and
gilt harnesses, hindered
with heavy tarnished
joints—but supple yet.

'Indiana Jones and the Kingdom of the Crystal Skull'

This commission is convening in a head; thinking
what did you think when you saw "Indiana Jones and
the Kingdom of the Crystal Skull," each in concert on
the lip of a ridge?

Why this mind-meet, I can't remember. Why constant
magnetism there is holding you together in a band.
A see-through orbit. Ulnas, uncles, propping up
the residue to stand.

Rule #1

You have AIDS let's not
talk about that. The universe
she gives us so few choices
as windows recessed into
walls.

Ian

The wet things, that're
constantly drying. Ian,
on top of other Ian, who's
crying quietly. The phone
rings, and is thrown against
wall and answers in
explicably. No sound from
the pile of clothes but mumbling
mother, or whoever.

Wet classes are drying,
and the heat on the glasses
found the wet in the air
and cloud up. Why is Ian
Ian lust, for missing one
missing the other. The dust
from cylinders of cigarettes
sublimated into layer on

everything the ups and valleys
in this carpet, grey. The shiny
CD back and fronts now matter.
Now Ian.

We Fight

We fight
of David Lynch, whose obtuser?
and that narrative, like a bill in the wash pocket
that's melted (don't they somehow treat the paper
to prevent this?) and we went limp.

So ominous musics that make up the soundtrack that's
constantly playing; too loud. And the dead baby,
whosoever caused it, returns in the dark
carries match-heads in a little satchel
that we can see through. When

daylight savings returns in the spring it's still ten.
Though eleven. That
broken clock still abounds. In a pinch you
come back too and watch this, the timber
of electronic beep stays the sleep from

Triskedekephobia

Abdicated responsibilities
of man in that crash. What case of
everything, smooshed into glass with
blood, get out in anger (maybe he's drunk?)
Three cars, one of which is a cab who'd
been nudged up into intersection, just
working on a Friday night, even if
triskedekephobia on the wife's part, but
seat's absent. Sparks, splinters of broken
tree, such a loss in the city even.
Two black busses not involved but as
evidence, disburser of cell phones, though
the cops know that corner.

The white skin, and casual nonchalance
of too small hat that filled the whole train
car. Does he know? Has he readied a
response the same as I? Cars can come
from anywhere, and hits me. No witness.

[In this life, that women seem to make,]

In this life, that women seem to make,
many choices take up the wind, blow
across lake, and seems like touching
water, but touches not. And all of these
are twined together, some triumphalist
woman.

Some upteenth meander of meals made
out of love, but made one way only.

Mind Made Family

The holdup of mind made
family, ask these plastics;
make good for the holdup

but watch not. The distraction
of mask on mask led back, for
the cause of sack race, a thing

for the children bes not for
the hold make, but back break.

Smells

And these flowers are pungent
and cover smells sappily. Their
glistening genitals drip
the insipid constance of this
and more things hence like
this.

The magical growing of clipd
lily petals. How many inches?
And when do they in death carry out
with them their scant camouflage?

Tapes

You brought what's achely wantd
I see you with my eyes closed, bought
from the magnate with brow heavy

I've made a tape of wanting sounds
and now you've come here to abate
it, but tiny iron switches in the plastic

tape's worth not erasing; just give away.
I went to, the other day, a thrift shop.
Wide eyes at the film copies on old VHS.

Trumble

O! trumble, fall,
O! little sparrow
inverted wind all
full of anticipatory delight

Hard Luck Brothers (2)

These two have hard choices,
and it is an insufficient measure.
And where deriving pleasure
is implacable, they know this. Their
cognizance of repercussions
and the horse of life with
unrepentant broken leg.


Is making, and moving, and
choosing and choosing, and
sees the coming shotgun—Blam!
Is fast, these massive flanks of sweat
with skin, quiver. Spent.

Needed breath
is guff. Is the, too,
unrepentant bodily
lust for the breathing.

He is breathing anyway,
He is trying hard enough
He is brothers sit-
ting on the couch.

[Cxio tiu agviro]

Cxi tiu agviro
en amuzet' okulvitroj kun la malfirma
kaj negrvestacxoj fiskrigardas tie
sen volonte la afabla
parolado por ni kaj la malvarma
vortoj falas devia
busxo al la malvarma
planko.

in translation:

This old man
in slightly amusing glasses with the limp
and bad black shirts stares there
involuntarily the afable
talk for us and cold
words fall from your
mouth to the cold
floor.