Wednesday, February 23, 2011

nicely

At work I cannot realize which headgear warms and limbers me best—my arms will not cooperate if I’m snotty or glistening round the eyes from asking a mask to prevent the snot. Her lines follow me as I step on a palette to send it flying up to my palms; I tend to forget what they portend while sidestepping this palette to the nearest edge of the selecting aisle. Then I let it drop to the cement that’ll burst a drum if I don’t cup my ears before the palette smacks it. I’ll get a pair of thick ear-warmers to wrap around the back of my head and a mask for optimal warmth. As for the black beanie patched with the three-triangle Steelers shit, I toss it in the cardboard box steadily filling with discarded empty sticker pages after exertion brings the warmth. Finally my head freezes in the flight to the loading dock.

Thursday, February 17, 2011

counts

The shadows had it in for us, curling out from the more religious corners of a house that had a mind to creak but not to foretell or indicate, warn or presage. It made noises, sure, but the higher meanings came from without. The berries in the yard never fell but swelled, crustily infusing each other up on their perches, discouraging her pinching fingers. Likewise she’d intended to update the Constabulary Poets blog as a living testament to her waning career, a cached interface with followers asking to be replenished of the dolorous wit. She’d posted a few replies to their imploring emails. They knew this was the end—they thought it thin, disagreeing with her choice of content as almost exploitative. But the novelty of a public-personal correspondence, her fame extending dramatic council while the Alterity stage threw out echoes . . . it ate up the air of an empty theater; she baked and cursed . . .

Meanwhile the stage lights were snaked out and distributed to the multitude who toured the dirt roads blasting deer with vulgar illumination.

Thursday, February 10, 2011

peer odd

On a pair of feet that dragged more than I’d expected, she partook in the dimness of this top level of a house which so contrasted in its boxiness to the curvature of the hill that she had to call it a flat. She wished she had a porch three stories up (the structure is two stories if we forget the basement); her flat looked at a hill sloping down to a perennially leaf-strewn cavity filled in by a house.

Tuesday, February 8, 2011

am i wrong.

Now imagine I hadn’t said anything, yet the world is commenting on something another me wrote a week ago. I don’t feel like writing it, and so I’m saying: 'There’s a song out there reminds me of when I always felt like it. And indeed I must feel like it!'

There can be no other way: So, capitalize your sentences. It’d make a great deal of difference if the rest of us weathered ordinary space, recognizing the ends of a family line. Witness, after not having sought, the delineation down the words of a theory!

Hence, no one wants to talk anymore, they did never did. There can be no ‘anymore’ as they’ve always been on the outs. I described to a few in the beginning in a diatribe of focal points how those villains, before the age of discussing freeform topic sentences, must still be named so they won’t reach up and fix us. In essence I told these kids to watch out!

This story you’ve heard from me anyway hundreds of times before. And seriously, are you matriculating yet? Oh, again? That is indeed quite nice actually—go, do that; populate so as to propagate your mind, spin it in and around itself, get all its contents diversified for the raging rapport of consensus. My argument, Dolor, is that we can now because we never did. There’s your announcement of total freedom with how we use our language. Since...because in the critical mode—we care less for the product than the process. Looking for an emphasis, I spot something sensual. I fear I’ve gone too long without it . . . honey?

"Right, you called it the sickly surcease."

Sunday, February 6, 2011

whiling

Is there anything that can be said for this view? Are there people listening in need of convincing? All: there are those who enjoy following arguments and to them, I wish good health and prolonged attention.

How it turns out is a matter between me and your friends. I'll make sure you're left out even if you sit on the porch. I'll shout outside into a pillow ten paces off just so you'll know we’re bringing something of yours with us.

But as it is, your banishment includes trips to the fridge whenever you're guilty, trips to the bathroom when something outside is squirrely (a miraculous view from the window of one helluva tree). I'm descending soon for hegemonic repositioning underground.

So if you like I’ll pick up a skeleton and paint it before you run.

You can sit on the outside wallowing. For in point of fact, what's further out than you?
And even still, everyone knows the death's head staring off from your desk.
We’re forced to carry you along.

For those who come here to enjoy a contemplative repast—well, this view of art warrants little more than that.

next time bring chocolate

They sit inside a multitude of cans—or a labyrinth if you prefer broken continuity—on shelves through which you glide, blindly shopping, reaching out and, between each reach, allowing time for the list of ingredients to grow as so many terms to incorporate.

—Make sure you rehearse before exiting! Out there it will not appear you did something so passé as shop for ideas. Out there, you must write a book about it: all exams disappear, or so they’d like. “I threw my back out writing them.” You’d haunt the school days with your own Dread Hollow Mix.

And worse, there's a writer out there, likely many years dead, who’s done precisely what you’re setting out to do. This is not so easy as saying you have a literary model because it's one you’ve yet to find.

Thursday, February 3, 2011

reclining nude untangling a knot

I almost expected the drummer to fly off, as was the custom.
I was expecting absolutely nothing. Except...

There was a process, and it's lost.
Forgive how loose my limbs are after African tea.
People stare, they sip, and the circulation of air is just--through the smoke.
At the top of the stairs, atop a chest of sorts, I'm wearing a cape and I've got a pen.

How focused I was when I obliterated a tension and an immediate fate...
Who put this out? A range of faces, nerve-ending, receive mine the way I get theirs.
Towards finding out subjects to avoid and capturing rhythms for ensnaring.

Because I think contemporary poets the flimsiest link to a language with depth.
At least it's like this: You can't let the auto industry sit in your poem.

The sentences of Stein would have been a pleasure to type.

She drove a car and the car was opaque, it had a glimmer to it however and the glimmer ran off the paint to add to what was then only the best sort of opaque, purplish paint. The car was driven into a ditch that drove the car down, she kept it running an hour after without the use of her bad behavior. Have no where to run I see they've been running it. A little happenstance, scroungers round my ankles stabbing out at earth and that is the fun borne forth, how stakes of flesh now through a wooden carriage into a wood, sound strong Flintstones. So the sad days were there as of rock, considerations all bent against a rock, how is it that the feet are gone and one cannot expect to have ankles when? Good heavens Ms. Poultice is that the question.

And swerves back into badly broken, bleeding for it is not like this because bad cannot be. Great carriage for asking is it all only over, not to death that would not suit me. How can I help you with what sets you apart from them, dear? Went rollicking after larky, notebook crazy, chirrups cackling as in a land far apart and divided against a trope. Now and then they're here since they have bought cards. Who are they that they're married to barrel chests getting ice cream for beady eyes quipping drollery when the snuff's asleep, they say visiting the grave of whom, whose keys are igniting?