to T.

    In my beginning is my end. In succession
...
Leaving one still with the intolerable wrestle
With words and meanings. The poetry does not matter.
It was not (to start again) what one had expected.
What was to be the value of the long looked forward to,
...
The knowledge imposes a pattern, and falsifies,
For the pattern is new in every moment
And every moment is a new and shocking
Valuation of all we have been. We are only undeceived
...
Trying to use words, and every attempt
Is a wholy new start, and a different kind of failure
...
One is no longer disposed to say it. And so each venture
Is a new beginning, a raid on the inarticulate,
...
In my end is my beginning.

-- T.S. Eliot, from East Coker

wholy
a
    new

you will not at all ages love what i love.

a man returns from war playing a poet and has written on scraps he could find of the monotone of bullets. there is no one understand. he'd be better for worlds as merely the tool he's made. it does not repeat or end. if you what he what the make of kill and be told words as written shoots. end in the end the end ends eventually empties the magazine of words after word of log logo in logos the black and white cut is ulteriorly the blues and the tool made man or monument the only kit is a guns and blues guitar.

geek

it is so early. it is always so early.
you know that Heisenberg knew
of this very bug, which happens if and
only if not looked for. thank god
the peculiar pushing up from
slim trenches and flagging down
(like WWI, until the higher-ups
ordered the slaughter re-engaged)
brethren. it is too early for
the rest to be up. it is possible to get
by mistaking words as pictures; science
tells us now you merely suffer a brain
that burps transpositions. thank god
science. thank god your mother knows
nothing of browser histories. when
it is late and the flopping slows,
or as often flurries in the quieted
glow, settle after all in that bed
is merely hardcoded as bed

rook of the forearm

again the beak
of words will i be
tomorrow craw
stone

the other says

the other says "i have come from the compass only to be returned to it"
the other says "i do not recognize the need for pangea"
the other says "as a small child i mistook words for pictures as well"
the other says "you want to, but you don't"
the other says "i have returned to being myself"
the other says "i read, but cannot write"
the other says "again" and "awake"

dog bites, bee stings

plaster shards around the perimeter of the walkway. hand signal for concurrence. an unnoticeable leftward shift of pixels. everyone for one day saying what they meant to say. the crowd's centers of gravity from above stringing out words. experts on the backs of heads. a shorthand taxonomy of urban birds.

sign-on statement

comments are to be cemented directly
& avoidance of the apparent piecemeal
disdained, this is not a forum for
the expansion of minutes in a day
yet we heed the need of the lengthening shadow
our attention is to be clearly fixed on this
& as our words will quickly mark
the elastic necessary in physic's spoke
the bicycle already clearly wheeling
about unsure of its course in the mists
while we are strangely attracted merely, if not, merely

subliming

words of phase transit rock
the dark peaked surface the way

some made fleshly leery of commandment
the alternate owned, fully selved, high

across three-headed need tearing
its own gullets, canals spout why

this change, mood the unnoticed season
spiral seeds fast-rooting grief in wait

float

bright

bitter sun

archaeology in sixteen words or less

the flexwork of veins
pressure mold labor
i shovel oxygen
earth collect light
this fossil Horatio

The Apogee of Wet-Dream

Wake a number of limb guitars,
With hypnagogue feet, and strum the hip
Palpations of sympathetic words.
Let the haunches propel from the chest
Just where the board is bare, and the joys
Rip tendons from the nightstand tapers.
Let B.B. perforate of seam.
Snooze button percussion is the apogee of wet-dream.

lullaby

our city in one of its stories is
healed off smote my right ear hush
not a word in wind blows over rock
with a corresponding kiss of when
the flagpole breaks in words as
witnesses swords and fall skin said
down will come unto it is enough

words

the sample. fracture splits
and spiders. disc's tectonic
horizon passage. imbalance
reverberates "no known
cure." the sole mate. i was
selected slabwise. elaborate
nervework in lattices of
genome decodes as we at this
curb hunch and the cross-
button subclause, random chain,
walk

mammals in buses, birds in the outfield bleachers

a flock of birds all want
window seats. why should all
decisions resort to the
compass. this magnetic field
is causing the words to
fan about our polar regions.