some number and numb


there’s still room for a bullet in the center of the day chamber

said the court as it was yarded and garbage

containers were drug filled and gaggled out in the street

the flutes of tulips

filled with yellow fluff other

companies stutter

the swan’s neck is an instrument of passion or the way to cut

right through its car honk but no one bothering the lake

gets close enough to know this

sliced  across the light

new construction panels say

red water is nice

if you believe in the rule of threes

all of the forests in eastern PA will take their kingdom

back before you acknowledge any mispronunciation

it’s a green every

where we’re not inhabiting

wooded in the flat world

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16 forms in the square


think like the thwacking, a line of mist

taken sky

add roots to the groan

if the river is followed, a way for the water to turn

backs the flight up – we see the remains

of asunder war – teeth sprout from the dull gums of the land

and a question for general Lee to remain so questionable

how could the people fold paperlike into their holes

masses of record do not retain their groove-cut sound

the static churning in each rotation

sikorsky plant clocks a buzzing and my father cuts

his timeless way back to the line – one memorizes

embodied motions from inside the movement

take the cover from off the bridge we are crossing

each turn of the wheel is the distress from here to where

blades are just grass and grain not knifed in hand

not a cord of rope sanded to the ground

flint in rotation to sharpen the lit things caught up in the air

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burning the interior (15 on the late)


a burnishment, this red, this heat this head conformity and shape of light

you say the window is the eye to the soul of a building and what it opens

you say take the night from its stab wound and let it bleed all over the stray
and damaged stars

you say our arms are only so wide they cannot encompass the curtailment
of anything other than swaying

we say together the words in our harm

we say there is a window that is the building that is the way out of one body

if only the smoke and the tinder box was built a vacuum

you say we are together in this and the color means it

all a compass can do is get the direction

all a compass can do is get correct about north

all the diameter in our openings do not count for magenta for what the height of buildings suggests

we say together the world is our charm

a city that knows its edges

a country that swallows its disregard

the center is a glowing thing in it, wrong lit all its heads | parking in the basement

you say the window can be an opening even if it’s painted shut

the center is a sieve collapsing its collect call for direction

we say together

a spark is a hard container

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Almost to the halftime but the game is just about done

this is no story, but the prompt suggests the angle and arc. There was a was and it was. It continued being as men in costumes kept their lives separated and began separately. Some mention of progress, some mention of the return to ways known previously to be fastened to the face of nations both fledgling and famous. Never a booth hushed by the font of a muzzle. The front line you were shown like the history of a fang, like something sharpened and useful. It was always compare and contrast in the way it looked up. In the way of lines it was always two points and between. You were shown the way out into a fight but your hands were wrapped tightly shut and the gathering moss was all but a stone and your feet would only grow into their prints if they were left alone in the dark. I mention the past like it isn’t still happening, as if and because. We are enacted and repeated here. Take this plate glass and smear it with explosives. I heard the president was in this one theater, holding his hat in his brain. I heard there was an end to cabinets and interior wars. Stop. Now hold perfectly still. Look at the lights.


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13 on the 20 and the greening gets its dole


you can believe the world, in it, or you can believe what it reflects

i address the company seagrass, open these quiet windows

the door is a fabulous taste, one hand after another ragged agrees

one makes peace with the color palette one does not disagree with

and the curvature of the spine is similar to the curvature of the moon

one makes likes and then makes lines and then lies about the color

you can belly up to the sky only so many times before it gets old

here the built world argues with itself in waves, but the length of those waves

is debated hotly. i address the company surroundings – lay down

with the street like light, it will be morning again soon and we have

such little pins in our minds to placehold for the things we wish

we were big enough to hold, we were big enough holes – the color

rasping against itself as it grows

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twelve on the twenty, a new design on the dollar


you fork the street into its composite directness and someone asks
that landed gentry question, like – you looking at my hair from where you are –
must look simply like a mountain gone | etna all up in here, and i | don’t mean
the insurance alarm claimsmen.

if i were to take the orange away from the sign, there would be no rhyme left
but that’s just simple math and it contains no lick of equations.

if i were to grant that the lines on the bottom of the Natchez might eternalize
the lost bones of Knight’s father and the way to drown a singing mangled
angel is with bootstraps and dark, then the radio would call its cousin

quick to come for it, stopped up with clotted rays and the jellyfish
simple in its forgiveness, in its permeation and lack of rigidity.

the rows of foreign objects before us can only afford, at best, their names

and oftener, soft, the other person’s call decides what will and what won’t
be stalled up in this world.

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a declarative opening – eleven on the middle. and late

this is how it happens


a declaration opens whatever window you are scattered into
and you want the thrum to turn sideways and lay down, all the ways
that can mean hello and it’s time for the cats to have their birthday

fewer things are hollow in triplicate, but beneath this sun
we manage our cabinetry and our vested interests, we contain
remnants of the cloth bitten fingers of those who made our lives

so luminous. I am not saying that we are what lights, but the lights
go on and on out there and we’re rasterized among them. take this
street and blow it up in transfer. take the lead pole position in the way

through one dimension and into this polite and absent body
we are traversing. call it your favorite time to sneeze and blast
the air away. there are actions and then there are the concerts

of pinning that follow those actions and this street beckons
a begotten. or it flimsies the way between signs – complete window
dressing, where are your lovely hands and how can you be a hammer

if there’s nothing there to swing with?

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