Monthly Archives: April 2009


the trust computer says stay at home with your shawl and needlepoint the future you think you deserve into the face of the showerstall. it may take some serious work on the forearms to be able to pierce the tile there, but take your time.

the trust computer has keys that cannot be mistaken for other letters. it knows already what you wish to say and clarifies your thoughts as they spill out like bees from a bag of honey. a bag of honesty, it sorts your stories for you. never will the lie you told to person b become the truth you swallow after a night with person x. it’s there for you in ways no set of liner notes could ever hope to be.

the trust computer doesn’t need a screen. it cannot be shorn. it faces everything with glee and capsizes when the drinks are done, the tiny umbrellas taken from your mind and lining the sand where you house your dreams. there is no outside left, all of the thoughts you could have divorced have come running back to you with their nooses cut. you swim, swim out into the crisp horizon. a sun for a hat. always the distance just right–far enough out to not touch bottom. the line dimming and straight.


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about shy the minutes turn their heads away
cover their faces with their hands and say

beep beep. a car on corner. a car heavy with passengers.
a car the way you remember your childhood

smoke and mirrored. blank as faucets, as bank accounts.
i’m no certainty. you’ve got all the lies you want to tell

and a book for beating the pages out of dust.
to win and swim away from all the podiums. to mis-

spell words and hold people by their tiny hands
and walk crookedly up to a vendor on the street

asking for a quenching thing with a pocket full of change.
yes, it’s future times. and no one’s flying in their autos yet.

i’ll swat the fly until it regrows wings in its Rorschach splat.

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i’ll spit the spirit out
it kind of looks like parenthesis
and a glut of question marks
ink-dark and shiny

i’ll spirit out the spit
lungs fresh and pine-tasty
a bucket for the hull hole

you can like to tell this story
or set the dates up on a pinwheel
and watch them spur into dirt

the sport in it’s danger when
you’re winning. all the pamphlets
and noisemakers discarded
over footprints. very descriptive

in the smarts. very toothy
in the grinning. almost no gums
left. and nerves that jangle, nerves
that shout their names out.

There was tell of a man with a tree growing in his lung. A pine. Right where his breath was coming and going from. No light there except what came through his speech, throat wide open and the sun above it. How these things happen. How they keep this happening. And what is it you believe/what you hear-see?

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i can hear the ford bank and slip
a bag for churches to carry the cash in

keep thin lights blink/blinking
a fit cut of padlock, an eye divorced

of early. these words are not my friends
my friends are not my friends

or they are pretending and so again
i’m folding my lonely napkin

and slipping along the front of a week.
but i am not even myself

a granary filled with fat mice
all the crumbs wiped up

in another minute.

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the braid of tin cans slip and spill off a bumper.
1954 and this is what marriage looks–kite-like, strings and noise,
no misspelling.

we will be considered something of a gleam years into the future.
and the narrative arc drops off its checked climax
to the final unraveling.

where is the raveling up? this is not about how to place
your chin into a past hat to come out dark
and cleft, the beauty of shadows.

heat and screaming children drink
in the formation of summer. the lazing of sunday
and screen doors that creak closed/open. a coca-cola

commercial to live by. addiction minus substances to abuse
equals a flat line. the sound of tires turning up
a dirt lined drive–all of this family.

all of this noise.

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i don’t want
to grow up.
it’s getting
later each day.

the plot of the dream
was simple: all
things ran together.

now more coffee.

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wash this fire off
from the black book read
how to talk at table

take your face and make it
do this
pacman gesture

sound there goes in and out
and in you are not
hazarded by windows

the smoke in them
bird scuttle
a color blinded by ways

the sun comes down
the air out

lots of articles to use
and claim this with
springloaded precision

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