the Dream

Oh God!
This is

not what
I want.

I've roiled
in the

Oil-Font,
and came

out clean.


The impression
of cleanliness—

of the joy from
dirty things—this

advice is illicit. And
unsolicited.


Four nights now,
I've had this dream

of living plainly and
fulfilled. I've seen the

rise and fall of all
of this.

And been availed of
simple wants by

waking in my bed.

Little Thrush

There is a thrush that slowly
dies. Fresh resting on piles
of ice.

There is a leaded meadow
that still glows with new burnish-
ings. Old.

And a discerning turtle-
dove. A fist; gloved as if a
falconress.

Assailed by dark waves of dreams
diving in on pluméd wings
of lust.

Common Vole

The rivulets are gunnels
of traction tracking

and a field vole's head
up in grass. Then retracting

into some hole
on plain.

Trepidation

Double breasted suits on
rack, in closet. Jet-

black. The unbearable
sheaves of paper. The

piles upon piles of
paper. And a sear-

able hunk.
The police's

Love

So much broken stem-
ware. I'm phlegm there

Clacks of broken boards
Smart slacks, two creases

And the ground beneath it
Lit by sidelong setting sun

Having fun with liquor
For wont of any other

Two brothers both
Alike in that shadows

Know both. Care less

[Set]

Set
the yard on fire. All around
your windows, blaze. The
legislation stays.
Play.

I've
sustained—on my two
shoulders—cuts, somehow.
They'll mend themselves.
Now

with
this new album, "Arm's Way,"
I'm not sure. I missed your
dinner party. Like a boor.
Sore

from
sitting still so long. The
rapturous traffic aloft,
redrawn. Heaved roughly
upon

divan.
In the back of van
with soda stains and can-
dy. Pops stuck in the carpet's
pile.

Why,
I'll clean it roughly. I,
Brick. I'll lick the wound
like tongues of forrest
creatures.

Who
prominently feature them-
selves in nature. A
sink hole that's opened up
somewhere.

Where
oil ruffage and slurry take
up a well-known gleam. An
idle summer dream of
Sheen.

[Mojitos go]

Mojitos go
asunder.

Tattoo,
barely

Monumental chunder.
Temporality

of skin.
Wobbly table

shimmed.
White walls.

Not enough
stuff

Trust

Ghosts above city
looking down see grid

Which isn't there,
and never did.


Eating holy bread
black coffee

Hold Summerians
at bay.


Noting sensible.
Diagonal intersections.

Minor chords

Brett

Jeans, blue
sweater-vest
umbrella

Impress us
upon us
things. Some

Work Traveller

How can these hands,
whose arms are covered
barely. By that wool
shirt, hold pens?

Manipulate a stylus
A point so fine across.
Whose finite measure
there, so lost?

You look good to me,
and simply. Hold ground
Tentatively toss away
your leather attache.