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What Ever Belongs in the Circle
hello the poem says make me a motor
no matter & I'll go all summer humid just like the movies & you could do for laundry walks other ways to kill afternoon shapes like evening shapes so marsupial or ginger in the fridge artificial king of the middle rung getting stepped on & steaming kale isn't such a breakthrough but consider the supermarket book gets you out of the house & into an intermittent sense of what it means if free time dreams a larger redemptive arena & dancing is just that though you might break the continuity just clause clause behind the space keeps turning & out comes enough moon flag eastern forest field guide sensibility to spring up & catch one redundancy you hold dearest as the phone pulls away the ladder's pulled away & it's not so high to climb past the principles a code of conduct opaque as linen chores aren't their namesake but to return money turning back to procedural talk if the poem says list your goals like goals are tangible & you could have an emotional reaction as opposed to one thinking through the writing or writing through the thinking to call it a motor running bareback without a horse & chalking up inevitability obvious or oblivious an avalanche then recount the lives of your siblings say my sister for whom a house is stability & layering on poker face sole soliloquy buried how long the carpet'll stay clean when it's click click there's a ghost in the dust overly self-aware of collecting from each sliver a thing to call its own owning a future or not some shadows look like spiders & there's a face in the door & a face in the wall & hailing nonchalance in a rush hour runway taxi time next to the window ethically it's power to pull the shade though shallow to narrate panaceas honing in on the nest of hair in this comb incubation outhouse near the little airport next to the cornfields O it's another landing how does that ghost know it's a ghost & was the face a memory or did he really say please open the shade if he's a fiction & the shade's a stand-in for human innovation who pulls the mimetic strings says hail to the grammarian all I wanted was a syllable ghost window ghost walker I'd rather write through the year of our bedsprings a dual-consciousness plowing past the intellectual reaction to a moving arm says can you type out the hum rev up operative synaesthesia table what's on top is real ivy in a real clay pot or a scant fiction figuring the distance between a blurred mind & caustic reconfiguration says better to water the plant than walk away a stick stuck on telephone wires & a squirrel point & say foreigner then harbor some hidden myopic nerve-short & in a nanosecond the squirrel knocks down the stick knocking over the clay pot anticlimactic airport dumb show pantomiming the silence of a jet stream then parting the sky with more runway runoff to an alchemical solution diluted moon planetarium pulling the apogee of orbiting insects like a bee ratchets by & I'm all look out dangerous neon warning sign the neighbors on the back porch expect the walls to make a great & noble eater of he who wants naked death pictorial when an armored car rolls in & "the people" wants its plug-me-in poem in the green room with the tin ceiling the clock reads geese overhead forging ambition to be a lazy poster boy for deprogramming 80's sitcom & culturally isolate responders to group think I thought we'd have more in common than communal reading instant message me to a real forest lifejacket ode made a fine oar then water came up to our waists triggering some lesser iconography Mike thought making up your own saints but I could just mention the actual days & you'd get the blades of a box fan in the window Masonic St. brick fa�ade manifesto O crosswalk high beam us to the highway pumped with sufficient song lyrics to pad an ambulance heart whose landing pad is a lighthouse am I self-conscious to think my pockets are bulging hand slapped for leaving the chopsticks upright in lowbrow calligraphy lacquer a cardboard box then punch me in the face the ugliest in Gainesville proto-autobiographic zero hour says trust the song not arbitrary ethnographic elevation & the view from this cliff in the dark like the dullest light ever to grace a candelabra rent-by-the-hour motel Manhattan & Staten Island ferry makes a mind pop twenty minutes afterward the imp of tenacity puts a candle on his forehand says the motor sounds off nervous system dispersal she pats the heart pulse retro-day glow handprint on an old t-shirt the worst way to ask ex-stunt double for the afterlife some aggressive blue jay wants to truth or dare us to the white plains in a plain white shirt butchering rhododendrons & I couldn't tell an insect the size of a human laying down vanity ascending birth canal says everything on this mantle piece is a piece of everything meaningfully ascribed or momentarily stalled if I'd rather listen to Dead Prez than get your hair did & alienate me alienate me it's too comfortable in the country to traffic in idyllic understatement dread costume I won't comply with the blank wall admit the dream where Peter brought the painting over in pieces so soak me in some other solution the camera eye wants a complementary mint leaves the restaurant before crumbling into inhospitable vacuum & he wants all the shells I've collected & a sparrow terrified by the tragedy of pita bread call it duty so I can call in sick return the questions asked of a great tragedy upon Latin trees moving bodies a vindicated radio outside the garden turbulent phenomena the sky terrible in wingspan arching over an ideal ocean idiotically dented all night the waves say marry me to a muscle make of me a prime mover I'm proud of the lobsters have seen Puerto Rico through the reeds dressed in rust brick armor amassed on the rooftops redolent firing squad mystique slave to a copy machine syndrome I'll succumb to the broken glass behind the hospital an afternoon gloriously lost in new street crossing signals mesh with the hydrogenated mind high fructose corn syrup catalyst for the perfect human being wastes the most money I make a pretty mime sound O free ticket to a tour of this town's best alleyways ollie to an upper atmosphere breastfed dystopia or a simple line of ants in their windup orders he wanted me to come over & unlock something without basic principles in check tracing the shape of the sand in the sand & reading by clock radio light makes impossible beauty I'll build her a new head to hang all the extra necklaces on next sharpshooter condemnation next paint by numbers a lemon poem if the outside world's a distraction why not invent a new alphabet animals do animal things in the dark misanthropic tell-all tiny treasure inside a summer horse the bells ring for no reason & we too find an exercise in airing nothing of importance impatiently tuning the alternate current & we too advocate for bird things & rock things tree things & things which are shallow clear insatiable turbine vibration no root things no masked things only things that rev vowels no boards wedges levers picks nothing in a nail nor that which floats a stalemate landing pad insect fatigue nothing edged or ambiguous the bells ring for no reason & we too refuse the sound of the slamming door threshold things or trembling already ruined crushed radioactive hotel sonnet adjective more oil more road the age of the undiminished human either drone patio toothbrush buzz barbed sound in bastard noise & we too worship the choking air around the circle the rectangle mounds of squares & the mounting sense of geometric erosion of global incongruity of monied things the little frog stares an ignoble tacit entity acrid absence of conceptual significance the bells the bells bird things & rock things O harpsichord upon the playground things fit in my mouth pretty-like kerosene musician infinitely doubled I've picked the two of hearts & the ten of hearts wheeling invisibility bees bees & teeth I've picked an orange amplifier the mosquitoes the horizon the casket the harmonious skins blue hope blue valley peck peck of tranquilized submission so the octopus continues in its mystery & the seasons half-heartedly continue & the red motorcycles make us taller & they want to take something else off so we let them take something else off & they want to tell us how they've taken it off & we let them tell us how they've taken it off & we call it structured like your face is a shape I thought of then couldn't stop the thought but I want to show you how they danced in the neighborhoods made birds a shrine they have bells on their feet & mongoose gardens pulled me out with forceps ask & I'll show the scar a bleached thing is a dimmer light O small o of disorder move me along like we graze here |  |
