Tuesday, April 12, 2016

April 12

Suffering from a bout of metaxia.


Dearest Diotima,

Plato is a fool! if he will not wrap you wet up like beneath a body above. Id rather go blind. Baybe babe. I-I, ah-m-I-Imo- Imo tell you anyway: which fruit of divine? Sullen. Streeted. Treed. What to do with a windowbreathe? C(u)(al)m? Wouldnt lick a lifted leg (rooftops tell otherwiseus) what of thig[] deliberdone (candy) stuck, suck-onned? [h] [ow long alingers slid it to the almost uh].  (Fawnd) of [pepper]-(meant) (then) (be-robd a) weary lip.

Experimence made me hat-hater of him solids anyhow (tonguey). Just Soc(k)s, (rats). Whed e(e) half wearem eh? Pretender me! Like I coulda bricked the moon (course I do).

Sincerely,
Sincerely,
Sincere.


P.s. Metaxy the in-between, the middle: of poverty & possession. Eros, says He, displaces what divinity lie between (ergone: there is everything that can stand in that holy way). Dont cock up, say the ancient pail. So lets talk about the trooth, I say. Cards, He says, they tell you tales. Diotima, you have said nothing to date, (olive), [fig]. Poor poor pauvre (op)posies! Sunsets in our eyes again.





Monday, April 11, 2016

April 11

What lunacy! 

find  am lost. attempt to steer the undertree toward Venus. Wooden hollow blasting into outer atmosphere, shall save the spaceman swings in the vines, hollering, hollering. 

never did a dark day once and if so was only for the joys of dragonflies, abuzzaburr swift constellation creek. Its in the false smile sinking. 

question: does will against the gut flower epifinities? Well the starfields in the astronaught park scintillate the medicinal falling of fungal patter, the rain when sky is clear, a thousand shredding atmosphere meteors made expressionist days for night. 

willed to live in splaying mares. Forgot to suffer, or, forgot to feel the pangs and so suffered blind. 

Lunacy!







Sunday, April 10, 2016

April 10

A lot of times,
“see the stars.”






April 9

Beating up a pillow
A lot of times






April 8

A poem means
Beating up a pillow






April 7

A lot of times
A poem means






Wednesday, April 6, 2016

Tuesday, April 5, 2016

April 5

I always think that orange
cat is a fox.

& what does that bird look like?







Monday, April 4, 2016

April 4

nothing yet.
eggs & cocoa.
woodpecker knocks
out brain,

harangue ‘m a leaf green
hangs a rough bark bug


up the up sun come




Sunday, April 3, 2016

April 3

bootprints white on
sewage pump, thin lavender branches.
feels awkward; missing



Saturday, April 2, 2016

April 2.0: Languid Angle

Languid angle      dang  alang nang lingding
gidin squid  glad glid alid long  dog not nod
dis isk dis gog dole   dog gone  did dig  skid
gagang lowded goald askans agag aglowded

meald maskers ug ug glug ug welo welo le
lealom   leamelone asker  muglug owl owl
mole mole   whisker whiskey  golglowlow
Lemuel  slepslap   whole  awhole rogawall

Me,   you,   sopsoul   hell   hella  ruck  wool   mow
meow  spoils  oil  scrawl   crikrall   hai,  hai!   hi hi!
warms orms plaices lace los losoi rascal (bye) be)ay
smear  plaeides  soil  sp rawl  warscralall  (bay) (be)

sum   opalsoap’ll   solo   wa cwab   yab,  yay  o  yey
apossomo   cracknar sal also  bay lay  cabday de day
mosspecro   etrol   low  liam  maz crab  applĂ©   v’ay
oster   prycome   saze maze  O zeal!  O us! Keepeak

pretester   amour   mop   zees   doze  loop   oop oop
stesterosterich,   mozees   plose    d’red  red   sposes
toes toes    sto  sto    chir  chir     som  som    sop sop
esther   esther     lotsot  sitchir     chir     mope  dope

stellar ellat stol dot titspur purr pome pome o
epo lar slarlelarslar, Told’ya! Disturp burp e’lear


                                                earlier

April 2


Friday, April 1, 2016

April 1

Muckabout in past become so sound a present.
If we’re wise we no the difference (there is know difference).
& certain principal bedstones of worship emergent—
A holy meal. A fig remembered. Dove. An olive.
Fermented liquids of abundance-fruit.

Steps & curtains. Keepers of the god-head.
A little room. A little door. A broken oak one once
would climb. Limbs a brittle soaked in shotglass dusk.
The wash: we clean we cleanse, leer diadem withins,
a bright blessed meandering rain—

Whatever is true, we name the sun. Shake our salt out
on the altar. Pepper. Basil. Sage. Our slumber sears, lemonlooking.
Drops just some to tart the spicelip slip. Not lost; we all
must lose together to be lost. High on nigh on here, O ear!
Ghost will gamble, angel clear. Cold.

When we notice it’s been spring a while, sends a calm
back into the shivering shrines of white wilderness.
“The dark days,” we are fond of saying,
                                  “made the blue ones blue!”
There is no color called blue.