eau de poesis

oh sumptuous sobriety of stops
washed up flush to end of the lines

oh faux fur lined slippery twats
of sledging elided expectation

oh true grit snowballing up the rime
in Constance in a sense deposited

intelligence collection

the menial man bewitched
and bound and booked
when questioned said
.big big trance
.inducing plastic
.wherefrom
.my toe nails led
whereupon
terrorformed
successfully bred
.o dubious
.men recapture
.stillness
.or lead or paint instead

sledging

skin in the mouth
apple shin, the purpose
of the teeth is
damaging,

grit: an arm on
hammer
opulent gravity

allnatural

pickaxe

the arc the arm

rock cracks listening

brainshore

wash up on thought
a desicated jelly, vellum-vellum
so far un realized, un-
determined, transparent &
suction-cupped
mind-song

eriogonum

clamorous neighbors up Lamp Street, amber
of their ceiling's spaciousness, songs
felt in the brainwaves, owe dust
to us, work downtown from us, take
beer wagons to bars. the blue moon
glooming in night becomes
charades to wanting,
our end caught
first--being
it was
when,
too human,
we did that

menagerie

that is, the human zoo, when
was it being first caught & our
wanting to parade became night
& a gloom moon through the bars

the wagon wheels take us
from town to town, grinds us
to powder: oh imaginary waves
of grain to touch to sing

oh spacious ceiling, oh amber street
lamp, oh neighbor's amorous cat

substrate

"Under the headline 'Notices to Mariners', [Conrad] asserted the futility of literary effort in contrast to the informational precision of reports of the comings and goings of ships, then commonly printed in newspapers." -- The Guardian, 12/1/2007

Eighty-eight homo sapien crossing
the square

at once. Fourteen
heads among them. That is
to say to the view

of the eighty-eighth to
enter, at the moment
she crosses the centroid of
the oblong plaza, fourteen other

souls arise in
constellation, the remainder sketched
only vaguely
and uniformly, the next stratum
up from cobblestone

still-life of crowd

the only thing real about him was
the torso,
everything else a squid of movement's
mask, overabundance of
pencil marks, ethereal
crosshatching

high sea tremolo

sketched up by
starward strokes all
hands on tarry board along
this thin lair of denser
air are sound fetched
feted transmitted