a declarative opening – eleven on the middle. and late

this is how it happens

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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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10th on the late-train

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The mystery is now not
what can make a person
move but what displays
among the enclosed hours
we are billing to the sky.

You say the constellation is one kind of bear
and then the bear makes a move like it’s only
so many times between where we are and what
became of the glossed ice.

It was supposed to be a future.

We pill an animus into each sewn thing.

I don’t display the frame before the picture
angles into both of us – some mist
on the camera lens – a way to daddy
the death that lacks each sleep-
walker burying or buying this exact noose –
a rupture burning.

The seal so leaping.

A bird in the handsomeness of a natural scene may be
limp and what children see when they’re brought to the future
of our bets. Our era lamping a calving sound. To want
the lexicon of absence as it stands. How you make the future
when you are branded caloric and disdainful. I disagree

with the bathroom. My numbers are trucked
into a floundering system. And I hate
and I hate elevator music. But that’s a distant
generation missed by its own flowering blue eyes,
their trod. Ding goes the always up elevator.
There is no minor restraint. There is no time
for confessed friction. Some imperfect rut this.

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9th alighted late – the coin with three sides

trust in the circuit – rust and the creosote

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forget the desert
my fingerlet, my spoil,
my happen-to, my imposture,
my feloniousness, my lack of luster

what breaks the bonds is known
to be a foreign entrancement

they say many things they mean only
so much of what it is

all of being on tape-delay
and how you smell

of beginnings – what wonder
in the bread, the dollar, the disputed
territory any edge would carve

and so we lick our currents
and the additional fluid
buoyant in our joints allows

just this going – away from
and back

my decadent, my cay, my decanted

how what possesses is also
effaced.

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8th – you will be awarded the third way

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there is so much time
to be spent it’s hardly worth mentioning,
but we know it now. it’s written
in our skin. in the membrane between our
selves the rises and troughs we collate.

i am taking my situation as the truth like everyone else here.

petals on the ground were never made
to be on the bough for long, but that’s a papery reason
for respecting gravity. there’s a talking post
we’re supposed to meet at. i like
the duplicitousness of my station in life. here –
this hole you’re listening with, fit a tongue to it and ring.

my bell you were a song and then the quiet way out after. no one has to know.

they say this like it’s a menace. like the reference
to collapse will stall it, just through naming.
and the fruit that is cursed will grow mold
at a rate specific to the volume and vitriol of the curse.

meaning we are better served silent, maybe?
how a garden receives the holes, too.

no one built for letting down the hair of the trees like a wind does.
each season barking its number. the lotto drawn
for all the day’s rotational placement.

say you walk up the grace, wake up the grass, are woken up.

the sheer nature of a cliff is such that
falling will occur. mentioning that there will be
something coming from a point in the distance.

fixed now, our habitual scan of the horizon in wait for this.

they say you will not know and by saying this
they remove our knowing – what is un-possible.
like a curt exit, the emotional quota granted
to a symbol. i am affecting change, the double
dreamed spring remnant says.

it has a look about it, like it likes to like things.

take the stick before it errs. and put it down.

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7th – a step upward

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clamp the light onto your head
your leg will follow the arrow down

each chained regret is
seasonable, made the best

of whatever side you’re on.
saying “Whatever, slide.”

like a mantra they’re building
another park to cover the park with

i’m uncertain of how to walk
even when the signs are right

they say the moon was full
of plants and microphones

formerly held our voices
for us no one’s asking now

to be let off this ride
but we’ll all know when

it stops

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6 on and on – constructed w(re)ck

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contrast suggests – the wheel, color,

one way through a block – to

remove access, what light comes from

behind

restricts leveled steps

in corded refrain: “what next”

the sky punctuated

by absence and cross supports

so open is

a new construction sign

sold from constants

solid in their silhouettes

notes and depth intact

climb

until there’s nothing higher

left to scale

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5th on the 5 – caught iron upon

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There is a way to control
the movement
of people and things
through signage.

One looks at the blue like it’s a wholly different element
and then makes the decision to move. Say a color
is naked/nicked in places.

What distress can the shade be when
only the outside is kept out and.
To stop before a row and.

What instructional tone is built into
municipal insertions, even when
disuse becomes folded into current statuses.

Update: the trees.

Update: continual learning, called
“evergreen” does not suggest
that anything will lose its vigor
so long as learning continues.

Take the stand, pole.

Whatever instructional language folds out
from the plumes of the trees
draws continued learning
into the scraped land.

In a way whatever suggests to cross toward
or stop
does the same action.

Our eyes stay focused on the thing that blinks before us
until it’s changed. There’s a current runs through this.

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