Winter and Form

And a flower was the symbol that corresponded to the season. I showed it to people who said it would look good burnt. Paper bags looked good to eat,

for a formidable winter eclipsed its intent:brought out the dust and kept its strength.

Punctuation in the dark: our numbness kept it hidden, for nothing is numb here-only the steel on top of the door.

It's a form we say we broughtyet none of us specifically did.

My shadow play kept the chime of the edificeand left it for people to eat.

Image Manage

Have you ever taken a shaveand realized that your eyes are glued onto the furnace that is in advertisements or is at least videotaped?

I think about times of lukewarm anticipation, of the fusing of mystery and dread,but also the acknowledgement of being a spectacle.You see these things scurrying like bugs across the retina of a scribe pose, and then balance it with the inclusion of smaller things,albeit bought from advertisements. And the cold comb halts,begins to be a childhood morning so it's more like an air conditionerthan a hair conditioner.

Indoors by the beach, the tabletop and the image of coffee in rural Australia. Dusty eyes, pre-digital camcorders.

Has this stubble always been here?

Dreamed of It, Still Kept It

Cloth, bedsheets,nostalgia for the ancient usefully diluted into neutral warmth.Can I imagine the dark scroll immersed, can the fruit and comfortwe grasp for be reached at the end of the rainbow?There are locuses and pretensions, and baseball sinews.It's an unraveled bedpost. Sighs exist at this level too.There are wreaths around necks. We have come to playand the light has never been overwhelming.But no one has won. Feet scamper, and yes I will step outside,and yes the beckoning is meeting my built up tension.

A lawn. So what?

Hazy Geometry

I've thought about it for miles and miles.A brush stroke expanded by tethers,roads pinpointed as exiled from a wall of identity,or misplaced even though where they areis not hidden.

The big tree with a shaggy leaf head,it could be any which and where,a moderately interesting drawing unto itself.The folds of indiscriminate transportpuffing out the life of conquest.

Where it is is where the finer points lay in hammocks,the pilfering withstands or is sheltered by morality,unto which we see broken things only. I took several stepsforward and several steps back, because what I am seeing is not you,it is only gravel and the acoustics of memory.

Words Bent

The salesperson became a doctor but he still cooked.

He said, "I want to teach myself this and that. Make pancakes out of bread that is scattered. I can't tell you why, it's just sacred and the pay is good."

The water rushed over to the shore. Commerce was a dull sound.

September Poem (Looking Forward)

I like fall,it makes something grow tall,and when the pieces on the floor are small,there it goes, there it goes, there it goes.

A man forever at the cones,pine or pylon, the closing of the daythe only freight we know that goesacross the highway.

This is not mine but your's,we're in a cafeteria. I will be kindand still eat the veins on greens.

I Want to Be a Macho Man

Somebody came into work or leisure carrying a small piece of a train track.He carried it slightly above his head, even though there was no one to whomit would bump into. Still holding the train track piece in one hand,he checked the mail. Many work orders and a few postcards.

He thought of his harmonica and teared up a little bit. Not because the harmonica is used in sad music,but just because it's something to be played. He swept the floor and imagined being on steroids. The boss came in and didn't say anything about how good a job he was doing. People are like this.There's a certain level of expectation, or maybe a lever of expectation.

“I'm going to eat- you sleep!” or “the park circles sideways, but where it goes does not matter unless someone cares.”I'm stepping on salt,but the windowpanes are still in this store.

Stanzas of Memory and Regret

The city I built was in here,and when it left its markon the surrounding landscape,a shiver came acrossthe winter lens.

We knew it was flooding,told tales incarnate but not yetin flesh, and the curiousmountain levitateditself above its seed.

Later on I would say,"I was never there,"even though a road is aroad evenif it is only made of yarnand money.

Metropolis Fruit

Our forefathers were scattered in allusion and illusion,and in the middle of the table sat a pineapple impaled by a toothpick.They watched it spin around and they thought about underwear made for women.They imagined a dark blue figure roaming the deserted night streets,but when they roamed the streets they said, "Are you a jacket? Can I have a Coke?Boy, that sure is a high building."

I am imagining the way it must have felt to look at a grassy alcovewith a new power line running across a small frieze of trees.Gave a toothache to those who waited, but a messenger of fear and cloudstold them to dive right in. A time table for the arching bridge, and the scopeof saliva on the new television.

Wicker, trees, fonts, born again religious impact with little time to consciously kill.The city blocks are not ours but without your gun you're nowhere.And I digress, it's been a long time:

years later a midget sits dressed in flannel at the opening of an alley.He thought about friends when he came here,and he sees many friends biting into mangoes together.Their thoughts and clothing, hot hands like ten years before.

"the silver world: did I dream it?”

New Memory

The forms did ariseand the waterdid boil in the bellowsof the organ. My conscience awaits, and black piecesof paint or coffeefold underneaththe bed. Springs make roadsof the mask and I spillmy drink. The darkoil underneath the secluded bridge, my memory is thatit's in the book that contains its double,relying on vapors to broadcast itsfear. I never did learn the secretof that smile, the world enclosedin such a warm bank.I'll begin to feelcooled, hopefully by thiseffort into the sleeves thatknow their mother's birthdayand yet do not care forchaotic balloons.

Somewhere in a cage a bird is left unattendedand the things affixed to

its feathers weave in and outof a crowd of signals. Feathers are signals when we speak of composure,a bed of bones and the glance of a home. Memory is a steel cage.It speaks to you when you are asleep and wired by signals affixed to feathers of impatience. Conflict when there is just minute peaks.

A butter knife, my friends, and the envelopes that make up the things that are just getting by.

Bully Birch

Primitive aspectsunderneath meadows that function as tall trees.“Where did these drives come from,” the victim wonders,as the walnut shells are left sitting around their feetwhile they sit underneath the treethat is a flat surface in real life.

A drive into a tense setup contains triggers,the stuttering meeting the pointy surfaces. Feeling they are hung in the wind,the victim lacks power and grows to crave a certain kind.With paved streets as an alibi, so grows a new toil. “It is wind that kept me here, I have a beating heart and I am in a cocoon.

What the hell are you doing?”The house at night is next to a tree that is actually a tree,and this tree watches as roles are tradedthrough disconnected tunnels. There are always distinct hillsand artifacts somehow colorfulbut you have to admit that some stronger pull underneath this all

could be a better option.

Window Coast

Like moths to a light,a retreat, hopscotch across several diatribes.Flashlight in my palm, dapper wings taken flightat the sight of thin, tin bands.It's like that story of when I was flying but not,and had the fuel that had to die at some point.Maybe not.

But it still calls me, the skewed omeletas a reaction to piles of unused books.

Which one will you choose in the broad daylight?Your voice depends on your tidiness.We'll be discrete, I envision us treating the parking lotas a pitcher of water, indoors in a changing season.I see the clock face with particular cracks in it,one beige dot that looks like it has meaningaround the three o'clock mark.I've found unwritten letters on my desk. The gateway of how things usually go,

a glimpse of it caught in the fanof swirling projection.

Lost Gaze

It always seems theslow expanse moves like a dotted figureamongst the fast expanse,tall reeds opening up the clang that is always accessibleand the oars are being juggledby arches of arousal.

And bridge, you are in the fortnight anonymity, above a stream. Shallow arethe waters above the rocks. Cut into the airas though you never knew me. Create the velvetand pass. And let me see through times.I can't seem to display my confidenceamongst your recitations.

I may seem lost in the turn-style to you.Bound up by patterns exhausted, and look at the groupover there. This night is mine, and to swim is to dive.I savor this cold morning, for maybe it is my home.And you like an automobile leave the bikers in the dustbecause all around you are evasive projectionsand yet we are bound to the gravel.

The moon, it's not my home. But where I found I was alone,a little strip shook its head. It's now or never, and you know it.I've mined the rock forever, webs and silencemeet the streets I won't say knew my name. For we are passing through even though the goal

is to sink into someone's chest.I'll know my findings in the space above the flat floor,the ebbing a mirror even though I am secure.

Neptunian Rose

Everyone likes this oceanI crept out of,teething on the waves.,and dodging the sprayof the breather holes,hesitant about the sea flooryet willing to surf over it.

Beach blanket dried,the cries of the volley, and theporous asking the wind makes in shells.Due for combustion, a mollusk awaits at sunset.

My corncob pipe is artificebut the tune I playis safe from composure.Peeking out from sand,a fish-like creature cracks a jokeand the castle a childmade is toppled.

Turnover

Findings in loin cloths,over the dam, a segmented aura,now kept at bay by the window.But I'll be around here, fully clothed,inching my way past the dust bin.The sundial that consists of the floorknew where we were coming from.And this is simultaneously a lie and the truth.A cover is a cover, a constellation hangs over thievery.And I'll fly among its gold, stolen and it has its pure air around it.This sounds like anyone's cruel ascension in childhood. But we buttress our feelings with the cool breeze that cast itself down from the heavens of coloration.Tonight will be a proud expanse, tonight will be a round donation.

Stripy District

Find my face in the incremental sweep,walk inches into plateau creamand tiny ladders.

The rain washes awaythe few windows kept to securea glued-onanswer of most kinds.

The paved hill swells,brings this blurry diagram-effacing rain,

thinks about its followersand passes to thenext town.

It's all the same here, just drier and smaller.

City Mile (And Another)

trapped in the sound,it caressed, pointed, the downward sloping hill,paved over. the great forest, arranged,and withstanding the great shard of truth.for such a thing has a long echo,and truth is not with usalways as an alibi, it is always a witness that hovers two centimetersabove the small city lawn.how gracious are we to find itpeeing on the fire hydrant along with the dogs, or merely grazing the grass we grew a decade ago. how cautious arewe when we realize the wooden structure standing in the rainat night is something recurring, or the winding wispabove sparsely haired flesh.

with the news we found slanted rain, cups of ivory, and cute sleuths.without it we found the pieces of carpet, the smell of their burn.

Youtooth.com

The florid oasis had agulf between itsspectrum and its effect.A body doubled over in pain was placedright next to a piece of chewing gum,and a naked, relaxingbody floated on a big leaf down the river.

I found the air to be deafening,but many people didn't.Chicken biscuits awaited on Main Street,and findings were lost in the conveyor belt of carelessness.Where the heads turned up,we were found chewing. Endlessly chewing,and the fierce gate promptedits return only to be knocked downby a tall cup. This is where we arenow, and you'll just have to get usedto it. Or maybe you can walk thenarrow path between a small hoteland the fence of landscaping- it'ssemi-legal. I don't know where I'llfind a drop that wasn't the original stain. A blessing thrown in the fan with all the dice rattling around.

Gathering

the slanting rain made itselfknown as the beetle shell stood uprightand with a glance someone spoke. it was now and forever, and I clasped my arm tightas the slow walker went across the flat road that winded.this is what conscience brings: a small thing in a large thing,a frothy consumer good misplaced, seen on the kitchen counter on a summer night.this brook is my fantasy, I fantasize about my melting body being a bridge.It has wings, it is tapping, it is amazed at the thing being raised. How the large low thrashes bring us down. The lights of bugs andbuildings at work make us quiet. As we, the good ones, should be,for what will happen when the milk is spilled? A concerned set of eyes,and the bold sweep into another moment and an ambiguous smile.This brought us here even though we did not know it. It will take us with its wind acrossthe pastures that don't beckon to us. We just know they're there and we fillthem up with a two sided gold. Yet the semi-bewildered onlookers can see both sides simultaneously,even with eyes not suspicious. We have guarded our night, a garden looks like the one before itas one person stands in the path to the doorway. There were many people over tonight. Will anyone remember?

Drum Roll into the Next Dream

I imagine little outlets or alleysfor which something as close to the crystalline as it could beflows into reservoirs that hold their distinct aroma in transitive bags.

This is my plan:to hatch another dreamwhile the bed of stained marble and snowcoughs and wheezes.It's been waiting long.I can see it in the eyes

that I looked into so long ago. Like the stone is here among us:in walls we've come to be used to.If only I could have done something,now that I am supposed to be grown up.These cleats in the tempting fire

have a curse but there is to behold herethe very space that is important.I know it because it's stirred around meevery time I head back to my car late at night.With this, I know too much and too little.The sky is several light years away,

the sigh is heterogeneous.

Quibbles

In No Distinct Era

Someone writing an almanacin groups of tendrilsmet with a preacher and askedwhether a soul is worth more than one cobblestone.

The preacher yawned and started to talk about the sky.How we left our presence somewhere and it matters the most and the least.

With a box cutter's knife my soul became solid. It immediately vanishedand then the sun set.

In a Somewhat Distinct Era

I think my ears lost balanceat two extremes. Two roars: one from motorcycles and the other being a yell among the confines of the body.

Without question there's a hood-and no wonder the economist cannot see.Letters not to be responded to directlyfall upon the space around our shoes.

The Weather Got Hot Again

the lion without fur thinks,"i will be a superhero without context.my err is the stirring of the wind, a stutter in a pink glass.this is a taste of victory. a broad sweep, walking past a donation jar. the crops dully waggingwhatever hangs down between the legs, that's normal.it's not everyday the grooves of this lawn get to be so colorful.i need water. lots of it around me. the candle is tailored to know my name.i am a swift dart, although factories still exist. there's never a lover I wouldn'tdo without, unless they are sticky."

still, it rises. the trash in the landfill and the creek never used. many peopleare walking by with not too many clothes on. the sweat becomes their own anomalyas the road arches. the tap at the bar is too far. where did you get that brand on your hide?this is the most glorious day ever, even though it is just another one. i'm looking for the clues among you,this cradle among cut off shorts. without the worm we are lying without air.

Scrawl and Scroll

i can't say i don't see a shining,for with my palms there is the furaround the haze of the image or projection of the furnished space.

this scroll that's been so empty,the opening of several plains.there is the notion ofthe sanctity of my effortsand it is redeemed

but this is so sometimeswhen I see how this scroll is herewith its pen and paw and the fableremains there, but with this rubbery char.so much never gets resolved.

piece of my own, withholdingits passion in the frame and build,horizontal scope with grit andexhalation. i make it known in this silence that i am here to behold and receive.

Reference to its Lot

The bridge that foreverstayed humble,wagged its tailand a triangular piece of paperwas affixed to it.

Dogs looked to their sides and the fissure of theimage of a bunch ofold non-working computers wasforeign andinnocuous to them.

Dirt piles stood alone and proud.Could this really be a belief? Without mysandwich I will go dead.And yet the wind not understood will weave these kites and trianglestogether.

The weavers who are silt will make a bunch of cookies andtell me to eat. And sometimesI will, saying “Could I break my tooth from an answerof any sort?”

Would anything bind my fingers together, and would it hurt as the steeples

are passed by?It's not that I don't care,I just have this handkerchief between my fingersthat might float invisibly among spectators.

For Now

With this acknowledgement our hands may glow,the furnace we heeded beckoningwhen the magnetic outline of a bodysticks to the floorand we still feed our hunger.Look, there is a sullen archetypesitting like ceramic next to soap.The plain daylight falls upon its form,we swept ourselves over to it with a nod.And then we fell into the drone of enginesnot meant for this archetypebut like an imagined stick between teeth.

“This is where I am home,” some of us thought,and truly some rocks among mulch cast forththe abbreviated glance.

Our Backs and Our Fronts, Still Crazy After All These Years Plug into the unit,the star-crossed boxin the field of leisurely cement.Without it you'll die,or merely stretch across and peter outin the stillness of a whisperand teeth that bite down to prevent,you not knowing why. I've seen the way members ofa group float in orbit, the potted plants in our watersdoing the same but in the neutral nether-regions of hope.What is this order we carry on our backs,interpreting the commands to stand upright,the stone medley a matter for us to understand as understood,but why ignore the loose ginger on the plate? Or maybe you will not die,there are still sepia tones existingalthough out here we are on the other side of the lake.Amazed at how we clasp these tones and get broken,we see that the sight of a pebblehas presented itself to us.For a moment,we are gazing in the pines and have forgotten our fists.