Friday, February 28, 2014

IF YOU'RE COOL ENOUGH—

To remember—before science 
how
Spider and I 

first got caught
and eaten 
up by that—radioactive 

nerve net 
and started—turning 
slow-

ly and more and more
indiscreetly
into Eno—

please don't 
remind 
either of us—we don't want to know.

ONE OF MY PRETTIER MESSES

Oh—how I rose so
tight 
and prim this 
morning in the cold

and wrapping a strict 
scarf distinctly—clenched and breathed
deep and then—blew 
as I tiptoed 
out my red door to notice 

with fresh envy—the little casual 
billow of new smokey exhalation I'd created!—its movement 

so easy and pleasant-
ly rude—neither 
elegant nor economical—as it
smeared out crude against the blue
untiring background in

effortless-
ly disintegrating pattern. 

If only—I could 
exist 
today like that vapor—do a bad dance then disappear 
in nothing flat—sloppy but clean 

and well-
liked and admired for that—sort of

like soft paint 
falling off
the edge of a brush 

to kiss a blank
canvas—or maybe

a dirty colored powder
of clean-
tasting 
ginger—spilling 
out from its container 
of neat 
white porcelain.

Thursday, February 27, 2014

WIN/LOSS/TIE

Little 
kids own big-

league 
dreams—like starting

for the majors.
But—

the majority
of big-leaguers 

once 
they're up there—start 

to pitch
less self-centered things

like—
holding a majority 

share in the team.

Wednesday, February 26, 2014

COLD WAR

Dateline—approach-
ing
March—times are

still hard—in fact, 
word is 
it's gotten so strangling-

ly cold
out that every-
thing's now dead-
ly crystal:

there isn't a single 
digit to spare
around here,
and no degrees

left Fahrenheit any-
where at this point. 
However—no body
seems startled—or hardly

even mildly
adversely affected. 
It's simply—business

as usual
inside 
and out of us all—that is,

every cell—
against all the others.

NIRVANA IS GOING NOWHERE

In a heavy 
oblique 
and slow-

motion
pileup of 
moments this morning—I first happened 

to pause pumping 
quick gas
in order—to let 

the dead 
hot words—"In the sun I 
feel 
as one"—enter my cold conscious

awareness
from their usual provenance 
of a far faint loud-
speaker. And then—regarding myself

standing there 
hood-shaded
and dark 
under the green and white 

cover of that speaker's 
antecedent derelict 
PB gas 
station pavilion—started at-once authorizing myself 

recklessly—to wonder

how is it even
possible? I've been
driving—since the stock 1990's!

so many
remakes—of 
the same stubborn vehicle?

and—but

to so many 
disparate places?

DEAR KARL MARX—

Do you know—it's just
as true 
with music too—

the 
more of it you make—I feel

the less—each 
new 
chord 

belongs—
to you.

Tuesday, February 25, 2014

ARGUMENT FOR JOHN CAGE

If everything 
we 

do is music—
then 

sometimes—I don't 
care at all

who's dead.

EINSTEIN ON THE [HUNT FOR] BEACH[FRONT]

Even 
on a pretty silent 
endless-

ly repeating 
white sand beach,

such—nontrivial 
strands 
of pure numbers 

keep on tending
to exist
wherever he looks;

each unemotionally
extending outward—mapping

whole oceans 
from its own incalculable 
and passionless origin;

each defining—without 
any specific
directive to be proven—the slightest

precision vector position;
and each
repeating—endlessly

as it 
forges flawless-
and precisely 

the jagged gem-like 
intricacies

of such apparent-
ly soft-
focus scenery—one hard idea

in particular,

over 
and over
and over and over—location location location.

Monday, February 24, 2014

SCULPTURE OF US

Another early
day 
on another 

dim earth—
rendering the same
prone pair

of reticent 
sculptors—

reluctant to start 
chiseling—
even a little

away at 
sheer—roomfuls
of dark

marble silence—

DUMBEST LITTLE DUCHAMP DOODLE

In my drafty
dreams—the silent
pale and soft-
cornered 

nude—descending 

just as I—five a.m. 
half-
sleeping—trudge roughly upward 

toward—the goal
of a certain 
off-white porcelain 
bowl at the top—suddenly

stops—all of her stylized 
declining

motion 
a moment

in order
to raise up—a trifle 
more realistically  

her fair and her 
alabaster 
hand in the dark to

high-five 
me—there on my cold laminate stairs.

Saturday, February 22, 2014

SHAKER DANCE

At such 
great 

pains—
the displaced 

apocalyptic 
preacher sways—making 

like he doesn't
actually

secretly
have to urinate.

Friday, February 21, 2014

ANIMA

Despicable!—the way
the one dude 

on the commuter train
allowing 

his—smart tan shoes

to make 
your own plain brown

boots appear rude—
is you.

ALACK

You may say—your hero!
that great 
and maybe 
quiet and musclebound

protector—
of your scrawny but amazing 
little stack 

of personal
freedoms—was never
born, but made;

but remember 
now
how? after a while—

all of your 
freedoms became 
constraints—those skinny piles 

toppled fast
and killed 
your old back—kind of like 

how—begotten
or made—every actual-
ized 
hero dies someday.

Thursday, February 20, 2014

KINGDOM COME

Try, if you could
to imagine—the chaos
certain 
to befall any big-

shouldered city—if ever 
such hordes 

of frail would-
be poets—as never before
appeared in their numbers—

each distractedly 
nosing-about,
unique and completely 

independently—through the swamped 
and complex
hoary networks—through jammed-
up and damp 

flumes of old streets on a
bleary and crumbling
bleak, rainy Thursday, say;

and each looking only 
for a certain rare
strain 
or two, maybe—of exclusive-
ly personal

artistic freedom—
all at once actually saw what they needed to

out there
in the unspeakably 
workaday fog—

Wednesday, February 19, 2014

RESOLVE

Kate—I want 
to make 
plain my intention

to you—that I'm primarily 
presently thinking
of crafting

the most—irrevocably 
vivid
indispensable gesture!

And I'm not at all sure
yet

what-all 
else it contains—but I'm confident 

it'll culminate
in the pure

and the ultimate image—of some 
truly spectacular 

iridescent green feathers. 

THE MIDDLE PATH

Remember,
at least—once

maybe 
even—two times 
a day

for as long 
as 
he owns it—even the most

bad-ass 
of huge 
hulking dudes—seemingly

devil-may-care, rude

with the baggiest 
swag and
the saggiest jewelry—will take 

his most-
precious

and little 

and
lily white—

pug dog for a pisswalk.

A CLEVER MECHANSIM

Isn't it funny? Whenever—
the sun 

begins—in your mind
to shimmy 

and shed its daffy salutation
down 

solely—over the highway 
on which your now-

glinting gold 
car continues to glide—how 

the music 
you're hearing sounds 

like it's all—effortlessly
right 
on your side—and how, somehow  

that fine 
sporty 
mind of yours just

doesn't think 
to abide—any frustration! 

whatso-
ever—in seeing 

such incredible 
piles of self-
similar cars—so long, that is

as they're 
not 
all lined-

up 
on the 
same shiny—side of the median!

Tuesday, February 18, 2014

SYNTAX ERROR

Pedal to 
the 
metal—through another giant rainbow

motor oil-
streaked sludge 
puddle
on the thawing pavement

soaking the black and ambulating 
furtive outline 
of a figure

who's—actually
not at all
phased—at the time

but subsequently 
feels rather
nonplussed—as such;

but mainly 
because he can't remember 

just 
the perfect 
meticulous order—the way
in which 
he sorely wanted

to explain 
the whole sordid 
situation later!

BLAZON

The busting 
constituents—can't blame 
the vehement

and sort-
of disheveled
bleary shining

forth of a—pelted 
slit 
of sun

propped-
up 
clumsy above the muddy morning—

so weary!
now 
after—having

conspicuously
fought
and—narrowly won

another
hot-
ly contested—relentless

next day's 
re-
election.

Monday, February 17, 2014

THE WAY HOME

Softly accumulating 
February 

snow slowly 
clotting—the brown

guts of greasy
downtown sidewalks

mutely
made her busy 

mouth want 
homemade mashed potatoes—

Saturday, February 15, 2014

SIX CORNERS

One 
for each—prism of white 

winter 
sun glinting—
off 
the dirty cascading

windowed facades of old flat-
iron buildings—and several

more 
for each orange- 
cream colored vomit stain 

dotting hard-
spiked snow piles—and the last

two or so for 
the smell—of all the log-jammed

big vehicles backfiring 
at endless 
stoplights—suddenly

lifting! with the changing 
wind—and grace-

fully modulating
to 
the precious 

notes wafting out 
fresh 
from the neighborhood's 

healthy 
competition of donut shops. 

Friday, February 14, 2014

SOMETIMES I'M SO ANNOYED THAT—

Every single 
brash and hotshot 

word
I drooling 
stoop to write—

eventually just
cools 

congealing with its 
calm
and increasingly 

amenable 
small 
neighbors into 

the cutest 
little 
harmless-

sounding patterned
pools 
lapping—
Kate Kate Kate 
Kate Kate—Kate Kate.

JOURNEYMAN

Ghastly streaks 
of muddy salt
on a beat-up

truck—in front
of 
me in thick plumes of traffic

nearly seemed 
to spell it out—look! at what
this life is—every ugly 

single day
you pay 
a little bit of rent—and 

by and by 
feel justified—which is just 
a word

you use 
for tired—in feeling like
you own the space 

in which you walk 
around and 
put upon your grizzled face

a cold 
and skinny reticence 

to ever even think
to try
to remember
who
to ask—when the time comes

for the deposit
on your slavery back.

Thursday, February 13, 2014

ARTIFICE

Sheer-
ly
for the sake 

of height—I built 
myself

then climbed shelf 
of pale 
and selfish white 

ivory one night—and just 
stayed 
perfectly

steady
still
mumbling toward morning

over and
over 
again—something 

unique
like 
how—all of the 

best saints
of old

hard days—were all so
ardent-

ly—
racked

with guilt.

Wednesday, February 12, 2014

COMFY PHANTASMAGORIA

After a tired while 
driving—I find

a kind of pink 
and 
pleasant ring of light 

frosting—just the edges 
of the doughy sky

has been tacitly
making the slight-
est of blushing 
impositions on my pale narrow mind—

tinging another mute
slow
and dull-with-
cold morning commute

with—albeit disassociated
and abstract

thoughts of celestial 
roseycheeked 
cherub kids smiling—their wondrous eyefulls grown wide

with that particular
color of clinging 
hot sugar—that blazes forth from every 
even half-
way 

decent 
warm bakery on earth.

Tuesday, February 11, 2014

MONOCHROME

In order 
to better gain control 

of spooky situations—

we

assure ourselves

in consolation

often
things like this—that ravens

like the two 

iridescent small characters

currently perched 

and laughing 

away on your grand old 
limestone marker—

certainly
aren't allowed in heaven.

ADVISORY—

It's very seriously minus
three

degrees and 
still

through such 
severe

and acrid 
air—jocular cluster 

of unseen 
American

crows—is carrying on 
as usual

somewhere in the treelimbs.

Monday, February 10, 2014

PERFUNCTORY

I don't just 
want 
to start—sipping comfortably

a new white cup 
of steam-
hot and bold-

blooming 
black tea—I also
(simultaneously)

long to feel
at the bottom 
of it all—that same ardor

that first fills 
up such
a vessel initially.

But how strange—
and how 
tough! and unusual—don't you

agree?—to drain
down the last 
bitter—and lukewarm

drop of the 
drink 
just as eager-

(not 
to mention grate-)
fully!

TRIAL AND ERROR

Interesting—how
jumping

and ducking

just don't

sound like—

the same thing

as

throwing—the next guy

in line

behind me to buy

the same thing


I've been

dying

for a lifetime

to purchase—in front

of such

commonsense

hails


of rhetoric-

al bullets.

Friday, February 7, 2014

AFTERWORD

Old winterlight—streaming
cold

into the dusky
and glum 

oak-
book room—at the end

of afternoon
has never,

I notice—made me 
wonder at all

where in the 
world? so much 

dust 
could have possibly 

come from—but rather,
as now

and here 
again—how come? 

no one 
ever wonders—instead

where 
so much 

could 
possibly—end up?

APOSTROPHE

Little crimson
left-
hand mitten 

abandoned 
crusty
on frozen pavement—you beckon

me 
to answer—rightly

the filthy question 
you're only half-
way asking—

what is it—exactly? 
that you

are holding-
out for?

And how separate 
is it?
you think—

that you'll 
be
looked at—afterwards?

Thursday, February 6, 2014

THEREBY

I now pronounce 
you

ain't nothing—
till I say 

that 
you can be!

And all 
your fellow 

black letters
back 
there had best stop

jingling and
jangling 
around already and just

mean—whatever
their uses 
can do for me!

CLAIMS ADJUSTER

Defrost! your cold thinking,
squat suburban

ranch owners—realize
those 
giant jaws 

of icicles 
glinting 

in white sun—
and clung 

all along 
your malfunction-
ing

gutters—could be just

like the old
lavender 

shutters
you're so proud of—lovely 

as they are 
so-
completely—nonfunctional.

Wednesday, February 5, 2014

FREEZING POINT

Yup—One must have 
a mind made up

I'd say, pretty much—
entirely
of mushy winter—this numbing and
punishing scourge

of a season—to read, 
or even 
worse, recall—

those white 
blank words
of old man Stevens—building

slow 
and deliberate

and bare 
his austere snowman character—so empty 
and care-

fully present 
to the cold—as to delimit, eventually
exquisite-
ly widening 

environs of 
so much 
of the nothing that's not-there;

and not 
to think—not of any one particular 

sound that just might 
do the trick—

but frankly
of simply 
assailing his memory

with a thick hail 
of symbolic-
ally—bitter middle fingers.

Tuesday, February 4, 2014

JOY OF—

An oily sky-
full 
of chilly 

beige light—arcing 

thickly
over 
the white midwestern

flatness of 
nearer
and gradually—farther snowfields

those glinting but
slumberous kinds that stretch 
and yawn

and vanish—out of focus

suffused into the distant roughness
of implied 
horizons vague with shrubs

only taking
about 
twenty two 

minutes—or so—for 
him 
to paint.

EXPRESS CHECKOUT

Suddenly faced 
with her 

bright 
golden fingernails—

I bet
sunrise

was both—cheap
and beautiful.

Monday, February 3, 2014

REJOINDER

Before we happen 
to wander any

farther—away from the literal

office
water cooler—I submit:

that the garrulous wonder 
of this 

ever-
lasting mid-winter

seems to exist
primarily in 

how little! there actually
is—to report;

exact-
ly like how—right away
 
god said, slightly—Let there be
light!—perhaps so quickly

that he didn't
have time or see

fit
to mention anything

further—
regarding, specifically, its 

ambient
temperature Fahrenheit.