the Lovely

is on a diet.

Nothing but films

and television

that keep the motivation up

and entropy at bay.

Cumin-like soft core

pornography; anise

and black peppercorns

defining the lovely

from what is not lovely.

Need an analogue

in the hopeful media;

an abdomen raita,

if there is one,

actically cool and rippling.

Psalms of earthly delight

but like dirt that

is important to the fruit's taste.

A good set of pins will,

but more will do it:

shorts and the right sunrise

will do it, derisiveness,

the quotidian

If there is an art

to those sorts of things

you'd know it, say

there were an enormous

circle neck Lanvin tee-shirt

and strategy that needed

to be implemented.

There is a cold beachhead,

Sierpinski has arrived too soon,

"Where in the fuck did you get that expired film stock?"

the Foundry

Reciprocity is bunk.
I've just done a whole thing
by myself.

You are an unctuous brat
however much your
lacerated junk…

Moving from this place to that,
geezering foisted upon you
and the

digest says this:
Take a deep breath.
The police

were not right even
after the indictment.
The doors are

still wide open
and steam is
coming out.

the Opportunity

Never being titular but in lust,
to throwing down some sunlight
on that: coming up in black letter
on white "If This Were Only Lust…"

Amory like this is a fits and starts
thing, obviously.
Never having had sex in the morning
and then gone to work

because the opportunity hadn't presented itself.

the Plum

Like crystalline
almost, on the top bough,
astringent tart
and wet.

Coming out of season
in the summer
simpler aspect
growing wider

and wider.

August

There is no respite
from what hid himself.

I know this; it
is not August

though it
intimates it.

Morning

Eyes closed, sun

rising through milk

this is

a morning poem.

Buckminster

had a billion triangles

and we

iteration.

Imagine the operations for a good life

are a large machine around you and

everywhere would

need to be reinforced.

Something

Trust this: do not
follow the one who
looks dead inside.

Honesty, I feel spurned,
un-self-confident,
confused and fatter
and scared—I said it!
Back to the axiom:
"follow" was "fall for."
Just something to consider.

Living

A hands width

from the chest

but the hands width.

•

Why do I feel

sopping wet?

Is it the lung fluid

coming back?

Is it that

no dry thing exists?

•

If that wish

were a death

sentence then

we would live.

Love

Even the very fat

seem to find it,

aspect of the Orient,

Bond villainess

who can't do

normal eye contact

it is too intense and

she averts her eyes.

Patrick

You walk

but not how they want you to walk.

Half the work is not 'showing up,'

it's the first part.

There are a lot of subsequent parts

And not subtly, even.

You were the cask of Zinfandel

too saccharine to drink

but too lovely a wood case to give up

all ways. Stumbling around like a drunk

or the big brother from the Texas Chainsaw Massacre

(it was totally fictional) but this is not fictional.

Happening like happenstance did not happen.

You are a year and three months older,

is all.

The jeans are overlarge, you are somehow

too thin and too fat at the same time,

you still fall in love with things —like

a book—so intensely, like a child would

and it becomes about learning, and

where everything is about that love.

And yet I'm not building a case

for your being a child,

your complicated life

was adult.