Monthly Archives: April 2011


they like to spit into the holes here
they lick their boots and begin kicking
the dirt around, pressing water down
with drillbits into the rocktalk backwards
through their handheld radios, backwards
through their dollarsigns and logging roads
the step’s a steep one if you can make it, they say
and unfold their dollar bills like clothes to wear

the day
is thin and so are we


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3 shorter pieces that kind of interrelate…let’s say we’re all shored up now?

thank the grocery
aisles for
whipped cream

what dizzy was
is something new
now, vermont

the rush comes after
the break
in both waves
and theft

i learned this by watching
keanu and swayze
dance fight on the water

their black rubber suits
another clinging to affair
to contend with later on

the trust they almost shared, the sand
and ocean comb-like–rushed
through their hair

life gets easy
when you sleep
and when you can’t
there’s drinking

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A bicycle seat for your perverted chair. The cost of shooting a hole right through the head of a stuffed animal, preferably something remotely endangered. A lopsided win on the playing field. The sort of day where you question what work is and how buildings can stand being so still. A forum for snake spit and skins that peel back like glue. The raised hairs on a body and stray tingle that follows a finger as it traces letters onto parts there. A jump-photo at an unrecognizeable landscape. The morning vestibule folded with water.

how much of a starter kit are you?
how much of a finishing motel?

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still no ketchup, but some more words. have to make the napowrimo work for and against me…then it’ll be back to occasional and photo-based meanderings…

keep a shitty tree
to hang your children
like leaves
but not let them
leave the grounds

keep a city clean
beneath four thousand
mounds of dirt
the burning asters
a form of situating distance
and what rail call
will come through that mountain
chugging and smoke
the last of the stalked grain

most hope for feeling
and get practically nothing
in return–the bump on the lip,
a fast switching spotlight that curtains
bodyparts, loose change in a jar–cattle
prodded further into the field
what setting beyond place
mats and mats to wipe your feet

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I’m behind because of the weekend and traveling, but here’s one thing and I’ll have to get two others together and up in the next couple of days…

two syllogists
passage contraband
but their adding machines
make the reasons

one proposes a ring
without a finger, the other
hatches a planet from a pea

all about the round
the long winter danced

tables and chairs like tables and chairs

and the tents were inverse equations
trees of the possible watched their leaves
runt, turn over like a game of crowns

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mist becomes the ghost
you thought your father was

when praying all those
ticked out minutes

before the sheetslap
a body bagged with night

complicated, cold wrapped
round your feet and feelings

and disappeared from there
once the eyeshut shut

trapping your mind inside
but so far in it seemed

no measure could capture
that distance

what it means to be
dead is no language

and single syllables beat
their one-stroke hearts

into how we know this

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don’t stall your thermometer
for my afflictions

the bed itself is a sea of sorting
dampened corners, dreary window

my french fines
for your capped porridge

the glyphs: petro- and heiro-
concert their meanings
umber, charcoal, leafing through pale stones
each other kiss
a word, a folded book of talking
gestures drawstrung

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