As for being irreconcilable and shrill.

As for rendering a controversy …

Disrepute and Discrepant walk into a bar.

    I will not harm it. But flatten it some.

    Screech. Then screech against.

    Two turns and a knot. Then who loves.

And so it goes on for all. They say

There's a predicate lodged far in the West.

Carried out by his buddy and laid in the mud

He looks thence hence and farther off.

It's a future for shopping and dreaming.

A harshness made of breezes. Denotes therefore

All the unvoiced accordingly.

And the wheezing instrument calls home a day.

(for ms … on a birthday)

I don't like

Where no voice.
Wears no voice.

There's my voice
Where's. No voice

There.

In city's version
Dank as dawn.

Say the people.
Ain't no people

Where's the voice.
Ain't no voice

I don't remember

Still isn't it better to sling a topical zombie

over one's shoulder. Into a waste of words

just begging for it. As a guy with a device

and a deficiency will fail in complications.

Then this undead proliferation of sayings.

Like have a rice gray and be god and all.

Nothing goes to waste here. Where it all

amuses and confuses and reuses our oozes.

How could I be plainer. What could human
 
specifications challenge more automatical

than any one gadget might. I get it and you

get it. Dynamical. Our pliant wandering on.

What I was supposed to do isn't. There for

the likes of me. All a scope. Fear & Trembling

takes everyone's place. Prizes go quicker to

The Wonders of the World. A big Bear Hug.

These are ekphrastics for works not yet

anywhere. So bother with it. A cornish hen

will not taste good as every good boy does

know. Which is fine with me. Who doesn't

know where that organ song came from but

will look into it. Plastic burns with an ancient

acrid leap. And steps away an old man

toward a half-sensed road cut cathedral. To

see. And keep seeing into the organ deeps.

And asking the camera to stop thinking.

Noticed in late afternoon your spiritual trousers

weren't Astounding. Stand up for ineffable diminuendos.


So. Weren't it. Unfolding like zillions of blinds maybe

in Childhood toward our transitional brightness then


parking Ourselves behind. You know. The dead

tree Whodunit just to keep going forward not


announcing Stop until we spotted divine inklings

in Tiny bug-like glyphs of breathy stuff. But


wait Don't you care what anyone thinks anymore.

Not The sparrows the germinating plungers the zeros.


None of them full of force and burly devices but

just Enough beautiful falling down takeaways to get us.

I'd like to say I'm not interested

in pretty language anymore &

wouldn't make it not even if you

tried to pay me. & I'd like to say

I'm tired of these games we go

on with language. But I am &

I'm not. Stand up to read it all

then sit down. And let me tell

you some of these old houses

smell pretty bad.

Make no claim and there. This ragged piece of

talk will go through a few old stages & hopes

to arrive here. Look how dry its skin has become.

Let's get together some night this week then and

sing it. Sing its dryness and toss it fireward. And

make no claim. And there will be a blasted moon

against the shadowy outwardness. Again, outside.

I wasn't listing the words in the piece. I wanted

to climb out of my sin of my skin. Thinking or in

these rags I got from the moon. Watering skyward.

Why this don't arriving at last.

Was has it in the stumpy tree.

Why this genuine blue desertion.

Was says delicious across the road.

Why this talking about me already.

Was well and it's all been done already.

Why this steady return to the deliberate.

Was the time trials then later a diner.

Why this view.

Was still full of words that lost.

Why this exacting text.

Was has it given more in a car.

Why this tendency to recalculate.

Was days on end with nothing coming.

Don't take my funny obfuscation so sadly or serious.

I could not get home any other way and still care.

No code can eclipse my bright bewilderments if you uncomplicate.

You just the shadow off the spine of a book. The Book of Me.

All the non-mechanical parts of me are engaged in a reappraisal.

My nature parts and are suspect but sufficient.

In crass mention of my separate or my swagger. Go on.

Show my failure silence up for a wonderful new film role.

At last I listen and propose the next popularity and exist.

You in the jar. There as these journeys go.

Far from the Authority you miss having said

Anyone can stand in a jar. But most of us—

Can I say "most of us"—think there's a trick

To speaking from the Imagination's dream-

Djinni far. To have a tame one in a tight jar.

He keeps that whispering on all night now.

When you're in the middle of something you love, you might be afraid.

But at rope's end. Gutless poetry arrives afraid to call its own number.

Working one's way toward the bridge of one so afraid his thinking jumps.

How the guessing is all afraid of the picture that might be made.

Afraid of a car, a window, another storey. Afraid of the zero the zone.

Something of nothing. Something for nothing. Something in nothing.

I was afraid to name the bird, the rock, the very sober tree among so many others.

It is all of everything and next to nothing afraid of the latest tiny push.

There must have been this plan to keep

from piling them up and burning them

into loss that would complete a circuit.

Stand so. There's nothing but not here.

You get distracted. It is your electricity.

In plain talking then I get to. So if you're

In, I'll find a way to twist it to astronomy.

It wasn't talking about my light anyway.

And a glyph is not a person but a tool.

You'd have to say like the or
like a or we wouldn't know enough to continue

As … humanity lost in grace
a plain speaking plenty confuses then them for one

As well as batty fleeting things
as far as any brachial plexus injury was a prayer

Knees completely green and
kneels completely grounded and blown through

Some tiny red flowers aren't roses
and like the difficulty of a portrait with its back to us

Shopping verses in Matthew
Greek and Latin fail to nurse an expression in English

Gone down a bomb
kept saying as enough kept it down like a bomb

Writing the contact
it would be myself with thick and unclean hands

Looking down as no one guessed
what surfaces even more brightly than wounds

The literal extreme
but here he does use a blotter with his pen

Its devious staring into white
a crow on a bike like with suspicions superior to

Have written in spite these figures
in cloth no less isolated than the law we follow

That tells our date of birth
and who could ever ask for a more even breath

I know that once it's written not
much will change for six or seven years until

He'd lost the getting over he'd found
then used those metaphors packed into his shoes

For cold feet indoors and out
some eyes make houses out of windows

Practical and dreamlike staring
into curiosity toward a current of listening to

Steely thoughts or nearly absolute
silence inside a plea nearly not there and secret

A timid sublime having raked
over the understanding the inessential order

Almost touching the glass an hour
past much that comes into the room as sunlight

You are fooling yourself
it is thinking gets so lonesome in the ocean

As if the world could be sucked out of everything
all at once

Once taken, this reading

    becomes the carefulness

        of one who wants to be liked,

approved, and honored by the other.

    If one thinks completely so, then

        the other will nod

and smile a completely rotten smile.

    Any of us should be

        after something. Just one drop of it.

As becomes turns into

    a different sort of verb that handles

        our inconclusive traffic with much gladness.

As one goes on liking a stream that temples

    into a desert people going on

        made of tim'rous grimaces & fevers.