Back sliding emotion
Curious about devolution
Too busy or not so (with the dailies)
Balance sheets tear my eye
A star staring
Forcing myself on myself
Auto treble singes the cut
Extra “E” why kill a moth?
Harsh detail driven in with a nail
Phraseology stiffens and pumps
Missing its next opportunity
Working together for a moment
As if compatibility were a muscle
Too much resistance
Preponderance too normal
Spoiled bourgeosie me
What could they have but beauty
Backwards medal a moment
nerve out still proceeding
stacatto endurance
tongue tied missive never arrived
or even called
never picked up
as in the machine hung up
not like I imagined
a cricket under the fridge
plate goes back to sleep
“spot” as percussive
derivative protest
byzantine frustration
under any circumstance
either deal or freak
momentum taboos the corner store
Easter morning alone
Setting myself up to be toughened
a spectrum of hair
Unanthologized Beat
spun out into
reading it sometimes to myself
see if I can still
end up waiting no matter what
might as well find a way to work
Need a scar a notice stressed
Struck through quotation marks
Poet’s Complaint
Exercising the drill bit in my mouth
I am past working for the man
Yet must do it again—
Again do it must I
Like every poor sod
Guiltily sapping on lazy-nesses
Bed of down right Southern
Insolence—Mules & Drugs
Sleepy of culture
Culture of sleepy
Walking in pumps sumped
Out to yards of S. O’Hara’s spoiler.
Miss Scarlet Mars on Venus moons:
O Muser be my Abuser!
Wake up—Atalanta’s burning!
When will I again be evicted
From this Divine Sepulchre?
When will I get my jump
Astarted from above?
Athena should be leaner
Brand me again
With the mark of the Breast!
I need a Wing Haven
I need a Thrush Band
Of gypsies holding
Mirrors to my waste.
I need a Lark who sings
So out of tune so as to
Shake me to my roots—
But please can you make it not hurt
So much
Like last time?
Pull my hair only hard enough
To make it
Grow greener than grass
& Death seem so near
But not yet here
Respond to me
Respond to me: how many
iniquities have I and fish. Scholar me
& delicate easterns to me.
Simple curs abscond with you
& are arbitrarily inimicable to you?
Against leaves, what raptors I buy
East and potentates to aim
and stipendly sic’em on persecutors:
Writers & enemies against my sailor lovers
consume me, consume my fish
my many sad scents
Positronic in my nervous pedestals
& observing all vastness
my many cementings
& my vestigial feet meow considerately:
How quasi I redo considerable sums, how
invested, how comedic a tin ear.
shiny jewel eye
with Julie Patton, Euphrosyne Bloom & Meg Arthurs in mind
These flower forms vary to me in ways I can’t say yet but you know already before me in your dress lace—no “A” on the off white (cream) lady bugged familiar to the wall pointing to Big Ohio Egyptian football in & out motion of your arms passion freak—out on our own time—to the triumphs flower—the stole slipped, the slip stole—no limits on the feintly fealty couch—passive as he was—(I’m huge)—the hinge bing-cherried out & tweaked on the Byronic road ironic—drownded in the lake of Prague’s Guarda—Valve without me—he’s—free—and Sphinx-like as I write the night again so quick—The Dion Ferry is X-otic—water taxied over Manhatta’s spires
where (back in time) she was living in Alphabet City with all the little stories she never tells:
While throwing an apple peel over her shoulder she suddenly realizes she’s been living in Description City all along. A big, blue letter “A” is motioning for her over to take off her veil and play, but she says ‘fuck that’ while chewing on her candy cigarettes. The Phantom Tollbooths, otherwise known as the Fuss Puppets, are now warming up in the room covered entirely with writing. One says “Dogmatic No Radio” and another, just “Spike.”
Ms. (Blank) was trying to think but it was real hard because of all the buzzing. People kept trying to get her attention and succeeding. She had started to live alone once, but like honey he started living there too, postponing her growing up for a few more months.
She lived in the zone whose even years no solstice interrupt. A certain surgeon had a beautiful garden there. He stuttered even further when trying to speak his own name. There remains a small scar on her forefinger where she cut herself in the university kitchens. Blood ran all down her apron as she inadvertently hoisted the large carrot, repairing back to her room. A Russian Formalist toy made of colored wood was waiting there.
She converted to Sarah Beattyism, then more slowly to Quietism. Single Girl, Single Girl, Goes where she please.