h o rse hearse
three memorials along the hen hud One We were working on it when the planes hit. Two silhouettes saying goodnight by the garden gate. You can delegitimize the software by blessing its update. Wholly unsatisfactory, satisfactory, meeting expectations, surpassing expectations. Due to negligence, though without malice or intent to cause injury. Whisper campaigns continue to plague beleaguered school teacher. Same hat as last time. Watch those meters bumpin. Health officials ponder lack of epidemic panic. Overload LEDs mastered overloud leads. Evidently, newspapers aren’t going to sell themselves. Frustration is the scaffolding of cynical disassociation. It isn’t that I’m ignorant, it’s that I’m ignoring you. Two In granules cook’s spells his salt shakes articulated blending of health & illness wealth & poverty, of sleepwalking & rapture, the moment when flowers become phallic, pornography of erect stamen, fallopial enfolding sunlight as the cum congeals a bee’s wings mid‐ flight. Stylized stigma as pole dancing hentai‐tinged anther blows off a bee. Three I’ve been trying not to think about intellectualizing decisions I make related to form. I keep going back to tiny decisions – line breaks with or against the breath, caesura. Or replacing a word with a close approximation, a mishearing of an appropriate one. And then I just can’t remember where I began. Ctrl‐Z myself back to what I’d meant. A question of which word to use relates only to time. Every poem has before & after. I need to be doing work, and I think I’m expected right now to be somewhere w/ ppl. I feel a little bit disingenuous claiming there’s a reason for lines to be exactly so long. Compositional strategies are more a time management issue for me, like avoidance. I mean oblique strategies, which really are less about experimenting with language. It’s much more about having no interest in my job, or being unable to “concentrate.” But also, being turned on, to be oblique, against something, and then bent upwards. Generally I stay away from admitting as much, but I found your question timely, apt.
runnered, & pretty bloodied blooded under stoppered dereliction untrucks blighted steep mises en scène broiled unstomached blanked by crossed‐ out eyes lie the crazed layered oather tunnel locks keeping the ship’s hull dry gluttoned pinions staved grace gone goddessed on us it’s a channeled anger blower potted pitch to dump over all the others, thus player pianos grinned every time I chewer blood toneds crescendo against pitchered screech what we wince its dremeled fleshing suturer’s stoical necromicanonical urgent fishes’ plusher digs weatherers of storms sheesh, wipers runneled tempested glower of halcyonish mushmouths, awashed in filthing so the heartened stent suckered out.
Pan right what’s compressed under the weight of a scumbag’s distrust of the shifting parametric we took as coming unglued, what with the stress of. Blot the excess memory maxed at specific target ratio as the drive spins up the calendar year calculations, static electricitied by the long winter’s ionic stupor, asking us to whatever. Are you drunk with the sun slits, skullfucked by scratching rashes, your nails grown long with black floor crumb dinners, licking the damp corners ‘til stomach’s full of nostalgia f o r – s c r a t c h e d o u t – t h e e m p a t h y w i t h . Hair grow backwards. Blood snuff the air. Breath heave out skin shard. Verb freeze tempo. Knuckle stiff the grasp. Key break in lock. Plow suture the tilled rows to flat map the back forty. Word quiet the throat that clamps what the head would say. What contains the thing is the thing. I was adopted by disregard, & thought it safer. So you go, & from now on will imagine I said the things you imagined I said.
cannibalance Tired and unwilling to comply. The sordid excesses of fallopian tenacity. Physics is the forgetfulness impulse. Round sound as the pudding with which dessert suffices. Trouble me a driver, recombinations of map misreadings. Skylight shaft, snoring amid the smokestack sky. When in the blitz, remember the fault is theirs. A landscape painter’s nude sketch of the empty canvas shadow. The is where I’m gonna die the fuck at. These may seem names, as love seems hurricanes. Where we’re gonna go is nowhere, at this rate, is what. The sun has meridian, only the crows know it slows. Broke but solvent, insofar as the quip sticks. Flurries resuscitate our misery, as if death is season’s sickness. I forget my citizenship nightly, but am reminded thereof on a pretty much daily basis. Don’t call the game on account of the rain when the rain’s just in your head. “But the blots, turkey” versus “Turn off the fountain, Waffles.” Nippers was whiskered. Denounce my ass and I get mobilized. What a chicken knows is syntax; the Rooster, occasion. When I got along well, nothing shone quite like the scope of my fortitude. Apropos of nodding off. We greet the welts where our skin is. Stop selling yourself what no one else wants to buy. Every big decision proceeds from some big dissension. Every dissension precedes the declination. Whatever works only sometimes works. Degenerates of fractured fiascoes The generations have rapture ruptured the disco. Spoken like a true meritocrat. You cannot retard love but you can love a retard.
Dice (compiler) Dear slugger I remember the slow trudge of electric current in cow fence. I remember the cold clench of visegrips. I remember the susurrus of cesspools hidden in pasturegrass. I remember the cough of pantcuffs, the hope inherent in stovepipe creaks. The cricks, I remember, learning of them later. I remember the trilling blades of what I thought was a woodsman talking but was instead a wood’s non‐talking. Dear slugger I remember the disparate grounds that form the state. I remember the tributaries that fuck to make headwaters. Dear slugger I remember the heat of exhaust & how it warmed our hands. Dear slugger I remember crawlspace antics, the skeptical tone employed in sibling rivalry. I remember some skies. Dear slugger I remember sleepwalk. Dear slugger I remember sidewind. Dear slugger I remember roadpaver. I remember cavedweller. I remember headhunter. Dear slugger I remember drainstopper. Dear slugger I remember a dog undone by guns, rotten under rhododendron. Calculate the conifer’s height by juniper’s adjacent stature, estimate as best I can. Then appends the epicenter, bathing your – our – blood bleach. Then come the cackles, for broke in a browbeat. Then gilds the goldenrods, here basking in some billabong. Then growls over phenotypes, with brooding with backbone. Then slips slit a stillness, blowed what’s the breakbeat. Then she stills silence. A slut to my limp dick. Snow settling under the village streetlights makes me long for home. Unzip calamity from its precious pistons, let it gurgle and snort this calm evening out. Then heaves the diaphragm, spasm to kern the freezefont, moveable type to meet illegitimate mouths. And I was thinking about remembering dreams, which is never the same as the original dreaming of the dream, but must be like it. A simulation of subconscious gestures by a conscious mind. When we attempt to recover dreams, we have the sensation of paratactic remembering – the filling up of an empty vessel. We pour water into the middle of a dry riverbed: One can see the water flow both upstream, toward what once was its other, original, source, and downstream, where its chronology (though I hesitate to append the “‐logy”) seems to be “leading.” But the gravity that pulls it is arbitrary, affected by other bodies’ gravity, storm surge, tectonic shifts thousands of miles away. One watches as the water explores the nuanced landscape of the river bed, filling in depressions here, circling elevated rocks and siltbars there, the toeheads and old tires, expanding its reach slowly and of a volumetric distinctly different from the teleology of a sentence, of a story, of consequence. One paddles upriver a bit, then wades back down, gathering what one can of the river’s depth as much as its course. Dreams combine the shape of the riverbed with the property of water, and while one can drink from the river, & can sense the water’s chilled taste, the scope of its course is beyond.
Calculate distance from remembered moon to real moon. Calculate the weight of what was scooped from your heart when some sounds became heard as words. Calculate the toll memory takes from hope. Calculate the speed of metonymy. Calculate your present location based on who’s stuck around, and what they call themselves now. Calculate this room’s oxygen depletion by subtracting word count from residual air volume, adjusted for mutterings and sighs. Calculate dick length by browser cache. Calculate beard felicity by tweezer index. Calculate time by electrical shadow‐casters. Calculate names by rolling twelve‐sided die on torn pulp pages. Calculate charisma by tweetcount times waist/inseam ratio. Calculate caloric uptick in rate of submersion in para‐causeway traffic accident. Calculate misery by television volume versus birdsong frequency‐specific pattern recognition. Calculate deathdate by mystic acidtrip calculus. Calculate time of arrival by guesstimating the pilot’s sobriety adjusted for underpants bomb efficacy. Calculate sitcom hilarity by diversity of cast minus size of set divided by current attitudes regarding televised anal sex. Calculate wait in line by number of DMV murders in population centers of like density and economic desperation. Calculate IQ by accretion of dustmotes on birthday as expressed in a percentage change from previous decade. Calculate success by how many tiny holes in your shower head remain unclogged by unidentifiable white crud. Calculate employee salary as ratio of sick days to hissyfits. Calculate virility by sniff. Calculate weather by pillowspit and cat’s persistent growling. Calculate pixelwidth by venom, by truculent refraction, by the gel light‐lit look of the mind’s vestibule when one’s just awoken. Calculate late by averaging against earlycomer’s anxious surrender to social pressure. Calculate dish’s filth by check the fucking cupboard why don’t you. Calculate tempo by tapping the phone. Calculate water from abacus pencil. Calculate gender by cross‐ annexed braclasp. Calculate fisticuff potential by bumpersticker syllabics. Then comes the colliders, broke in a blowback. You have wasted those halcyon days. You have toasted the wrong victories. You have been among angels without knowing what they ask of you. You have driven on a flat tire, ignoring every concerned gesticulation. You have squandered what others suffered to save. You have burnt the bridges from their pilings, then decimated the pilings and polluted the rivers. You have forgotten names. You have become adept at slowing your heart to feign death. You have blinked in the face of hardship, allowed words to act as agents against you. You have slept alone at night and were cold. You have forsaken the phone, the internet, then communication altogether. You’ve expected unrealistic dividends. You have had half, and now demand the whole. You have spent more than you have earned. You have crossed the line. You have blown the wad. You have had use without ownership. You have been living on borrowed time. You have switched when the time was right to fight. You have fought against the slow creep of sleep. You have birds in hand, none in bush. You’ve held whole but are beginning to dissipate. You have warped the weave against the pleated border. You have brought shame upon your pets. You have googled your name, to minimal avail. You have bled others dry. You have blood‐brothered strangers, hoping for advantage. You have had to pee for a long time now, and will yet have to wait. You have brushed against the man whose future compromises your own, but that was a long time ago. You have happened upon these ruins in this dense woods every time you have gotten lost in these thick wilds. Dear slugger I remember nothing of those days.
We considered your request, but need further documentation regarding the following statutes. Blue grout, as in: stop up the water’s will to leak toward new lows. Moreover some spigots suck, and some, exhausted, blow. Paragraph (m) stipulates the only consumer‐accessible function remain the off button. The coast is where the folding money’s at, shimmering nocturnal glassy‐eyed bride. Once you have produced items (a) through (f), staple and attach a copy of your original request. We will proceed to
certain to mutt what’s bred pure
ifing the ors until the syntax complies. Take into account the ambiguity of our position, in relation to where you once stood vis‐à‐vis the bureau. There is unity even in deference to federal government restrictions on�� pedantry exports, as long as the trade balance considers not simply metrical weight but the ink‐to‐think ratio. Can you clot what cannot stop, own accordance with miserable law? Can you jaundice the board into trading muscle for mechanics? Can you massage the light to shine more brightly on you, you slow‐risen loaf? Your signature
signifies complicity with all stated or implied, extant or developing policy. To toast this town would take a blowtorch. Because of the syllogism, clause of the addendum. Axis of e‐mail, where the shoulder meets the should’ves. Once forms have been processed, the process will have fully formed. Once the blog has calcified, what’s born of paper returns to pulp. Once a man of honor, grown to dissolve again into the corporate logorrhea. A crock pot head. A wearing down of town. A slow poked ember, embroiled in
smoldered memories that stoke only a vague reminder of what we once meant by delivering the goods. In the woods, there are only undetermined states of decay. In the woods, there’s care to nurture. In the woulds, the shoulds indicate failed business plans. On the plains, we circle the wagons inkily, bloat slows our progress but quarterly earnings beat projections by more than a quarter of a quarter of a percent. But our intel smells of some other agency, of no closure. No shit, no show, no surplus to pulse.
homing besides shades whenever you habitate the house the definitive grip of no one else’s shit elicits some calm staving off a car’s alarm never knew you had it in you, a sung song that remembers the when you my epitheton, the verbs disturbed the placed rivers, send me an e‐mail if you know what that shit means, attaching everything in the world to its place in particularity, its identity reciprocated. there is only one way to be. If it is code that draws you near, let the body fill up the body, let the brow furrow the thought it shelters, let the stove heat the house to home. time has dealt harshly with the tongue ties, with earbones, with the float and the wake the words make, plow to suck against the narrative weight. I got a phone call last night, its ring had the ring of fate. we will build but had built, and then it all fell apart. we willed or had willed, but lost both hope and heart. we’re hard and will stay hard, this last full day of fall. we fell and will have fallen, but it happens to us all. if I could send you that tornado I would send it. if I could tell you what I want, I’d try to sing it in a song. if I could relegate my thoughts to reflection, I’d not worry about what’s coming, but what what means or meant. these voices haven’t helped me. These clothes rent or tear according to their wear. These words have fused, you’ve heard them before. No tool to pry them apart but this lousy heart. storm’s suffrage alights adeck, mast’s halves all what’s left to call a wreck. The grass of childhood, pubic mortality in the gray beard burn‐out, or wearing casts to deplete the bones. what one thought of another one doesn’t matter. I don’t see anything most of the time. Distrust ripples the sentences into someone else’s picture of whatever it is I’m supposed to be, ghost self of no me.
spigot Grip the spigot of your affections, driven nails risen from a plank. I had never not, had never meant I meant, hadn’t even thought, until all the time was spent. Then this lake. That that lake was pure. That what water c o u ld enfold. W h e r e t h e w h e e l s l o s e t r a c t i o n ’ s w h e r e I s w i m i n a g a i n . Forget the thirst that defines the drought. First was the water, & we talked about object permanence in young children, had drunk heavily, and loaded words with blowndown grist. What hadn’t been said: We are heavily burdened by accidentally‐memorized television theme songs, by the weight of witnessing defeat in the American League East, by letting light through shutters, by the critics’ reviews of critical reviews, by blotches, by chancres, by efflorescence, by broken & toxic memories, by slap‐on‐the‐wrist economics. Slip the Stagger Lee into your repertoire. Still the germ that sets the cell afire. Stun the nerve to break the nested tremor loop. Glazed perforation of latitude leather. F l u c t u a t i o n s i n t h e r a d i o r e c e p t i o n m i x e s t h e D J s ’ metaphors. Blokes built of drug addiction, or spelt of only vowels. One dream said The weather in New York is paragraphs, but in Paris it’s hardly even sentences. More like fragments. No, it’s stanzas, she said. The metrical dissolution resigns itself to the headache of allusion. Between the two hundred Gauloises smokes the singular heart, pulling staunched blood from its clots. It’s not always the pronouns that pounce, nor always the nouns that announce. Nor almost always the verbs that inter us in the nest of serifs your head cannot reassemble into letters. There are no signposts to bolt the signs to, so we make roads of them, metal stepstones through the grassy margins. No one deserves to drive. I mean no one deserves to have died. They just have, or did.
totally What the snow blinds the sun rots. The sudden shocks the system, an ingrown piston. Flooded. What the scoff laws of allowance. The matter minions are persistent, elegant fists & shoulders. What the grouse grows in silence. The bellclasp balloons out of proportion, sends birds ascatter. What the fuck faces folds in vellum. The meal combo number six leaves each day in tatters. What the claw foots fills with splendor. Thereto but for the grace of going goes the lexicon’s foe. What the spoke rims rhymes with impunity. The space dashes its dots until the code is white noise. What the glow bugs the belfry’s scope. The bitter pill pulls the slow strings, burns its towers down. What the sudden slows in showing. The remittance lows like mooing, such a state to find one’s knowing.
state of being pronoun(c)ed (a conversation) (an apology)
It isn’t because, it just is. It isn’t going to be, it always was. It isn’t will be, but what will’ve been. It is what wasn’t worth it. It is what couldn’t have been avoided. It is the way things turn, an entropy. It isn’t this way because of the way. It isn’t this way because of nothing. It isn’t this way because of something. It is this way because I cannot talk my way out of it. It is this way because I cannot not talk about it. It is this way because my heart’s not in it. It isn’t only because of loss. It isn’t only because of longing. It isn’t only because of knowing. It is but that doesn’t mean it always will be. It is but you know you have no power to change it. It is but once one tries, there’s something else one never tried. It isn’t going to go away. It isn’t going to diminish. It isn’t going to change. It is though not in the way you think. It is though not in the manner of speaking. It is though there’s no way of saying. It isn’t up to us. It isn’t something I can talk about. It isn’t worth the ink or the paper it’s printed on. It is a gamble I’m willing to take. It is a change from the agenda in the program. It is a glitch in the subroutine. It isn’t where I left it. It isn’t why I told you. It isn’t how I wanted it to be. It is a figure of speech. It is the sound of forgetting. It is the shape of distance.
This Stole Some Time For Once the Clocks Were Set Ragged around the perfumed edge once our skills have found the limit. I could shake you from among those rising to the new pantshit challenge. I could freeze out these interlopers who dismayed us with tactical errors. I could give credence to a corruption by typing out the transcript, bleating. I could remember you, long tresses holding the billowing bridge upright. But where the sky and water meet belongs to no one, is no one’s, still. And where the fence divides a yard to yards, only the dogs’ piss is true. And beyond the spelling lies a letter no one’s thought to need to use yet, like a note between notes played by the poor cellist, & laughed off stage. So full circle comes to empty sphere where the plane intersects nothing, where the gravity we thought’ld hold evaporates with the sphere’s collapse. Drinking only brings me down, finally. Suppositious persons so aggrieved by their want of melody to forget words. Kill the mammals but let live the ants, the sparrow, the ocelot & the stork. Defend misbehavior when it involves lunacy, or defiant antiauthoritarianism. Poster the wall over with fire hazards and take up bed‐smoking, fancy Zippos. This sounds like advice, but it is helios or slow cooking, or a polyvinyl chloride nostalgia trip, floated on pinged‐out eyeglut drugs, or a few days camping in a woods made out of whatever wood the woods is made out of, & of oblivion.
Jrolm of Halfwits For what follows. For what cones against. For squat swallows. For some cinch defensed. For cocked shadows. For grained filters’ prints. For slattern’s gallows. For fate against latent agents. How’s tomorrow sound? How’s the glass shatter? How the furrowed ground? How’s what did not matter? How’s the divining rod round? How’s one skirt the party patter? How’s the what‐ups we drown? How the former subsumes the latter. Close call that was just now. Brimful serve after brimful serve. And so and so and so and so. The shit will get what the shit deserves. Cars mow roads, bear a deer plow. Headlights lack the black night’s curve. So we crow until the heat comes slow. Swollen skin against the bones’ won’t hurt.
This is what’s now going to happen. This is what now has happened. This is not though what just happened. This is no longer going to happen. Something else is. This is never going to happen. This is what just happened, but I missed it, having looked out the window. This is happening. This was never going to not happen. This is still happening. This was always what was meant to happen. This will happen. This will have been happening. This is what would have happened anyway, whether I looked out the window or not. This won’t happen until this stops not happening. This is what wouldn’t have happened if I’d not looked out the window. This was never not going to happen. This will be what was happening when I looked out the window. This was happening when this was not happening. This will be able to happen only when I look out of the window. This will happen.
measure What inches is what isn’t what matters. These shape the dark. Something is the matter. Still voices shaped rooms. Still the voices shaped rooms. These voice‐shaped rooms. The matter is a solid, air around allows us an out. In returning from the long border skirmish, the campaigner remembers the word “home.” Fan a flame in reaching words. Wrought works cast shadows still, flicker from the flame. There were barbarians there. There are barbarians here. Barbarism begins far from the borders they form. A matter that facts us from fiction. Were I an animal I’d be an it. Leaflet drops. Let leaves drop. Drops on leaves wet the winter’s lips. Medieval boyscouts versus reanimated Victorian zombies. Armed to the teeth with teeth. My paycheck pounces on the ounces, every morsel accounted for in teeth. Tupperware savings account, handiwrap suitcase, cutting the mold from careless closure. Matter as a fact pattern. Drawl of some South’s mouth. Twang of this cleft glottal drift. Long works last less. Spendthrift days, a parsimony in plastic craft. Workless at long last. If it matters the transient nebula, then we put wood on the fire, words in the mouth. Piehole politics. Wedding bells’ welding. Suck of air against push of pulse. Interior interment beats the public burial.
Jilted from a distance. Corpus collosum’s collapsing ability to grasp. It stops the seizures but still my beating heart. Long lists of what one wants to do, to have done to them, to be doing in the instant one thinks it. Drill for the particular emergency, but practice continual contingency as the walls hint at crumbling. This matter is on the agenda. Grey from the rain, wooden wheels splintered around the rim. Axelling itself from warped center. Cell bill trumps circular savings. Imagine restoring the shavings to the sharpened pencil. One must want two things at once. Once must have wanted to thing the things it thought. That was god, then, the things were spaces in an unspoken sentence. Clutch plates can’t hold the hill. Slow slippage against revs, though friction becomes more vital the further over the hill the vessel transgresses. Clutching plates and holding still. Grey matters, caught between the flecks of black and white. Caught among the flickers strobing the words we print. Gyro to find specific points to plot. The center of balance shifts the perspective. There was an axis. Comment on the axioms. An accident of matters, immaterial to the causes. These are all worlds of warcraft. Every car is Mario’s car. Even the self is simmed, is simmering. What mattered me into making. What made the matter transparent. Elements of an agency. Pencil me in for the four‐thirty. I have thrift, and give away the moments as they unspool from the loom of time. Time looms. Soon.
please what the worn heart was to start at the arms those broke loping and to gnaw tibia
dogs mangy rags how they bite at us
shards left in yards
where sidewalks’ld wend (when we planned on sidewalks, chalked)
but no we don’t, now we plan on making it up as we go razed eighths of acres stacked until the river runs us out I had a perspective but lost it in the sun. What’s a little water in the eyes? Except my eyes go limp, let the limbs spill out of shirt sleeves, shit and piss whenever It’s reigning you are not suburban are you suburban? what is underneath the colored grass? covered glass aloof rockets, molten dinner tables, sanitized Grand Cherokees amid begonia and the sports pages I didn’t mean to get upset with you, I just cannot see past 40 anymore or to please what or to choose what or to be wet the worn heart was such effects might cause violating the decency laws