Tuesday, March 8, 2011


“...makes a small man want to throw

A Medium-sized stone
At the whorehouse door” - Sandra Simonds

you know there's a book there
he should put on clothes for
it's my antonia

or burn and smell good
horn hockets this foot of ice
and floods where it's narrow pick
off river salt

think vertical opera (if you're to
freeze it, the cycle) you've climbed up somebody's gut
gat some window to get passed
snaps its legs, gains

of his violation stones
the Madame's windows
what james dean when he runs
seed on the floor

not as Onan freely on the earth
enjoining procedural whim“tells
her that teddy is lucky
to be eponymous”

like what pleromic aperture that's invisible
but you can see through
furtive as to gold

on a Monterey walk
physique filling the skin out
neared to furthered extérieur

guiltless span, the mouth licked (“an
gulus”, “angustia”), he's
clearly going to get up any
he got up

their century's dreaming
fafnerian, a boot high up
you can reach and the injury of it is
now you're high up

a moral domestic like getting up
the attended getting up
being asked whether I wanted her to
hold my medium fizzy as I stood

and I threw it in and pawed her for a foot
an inch of toe's itch on the pier, the sun
going to be a minute, some

twelve inches in shadow
toward a taurus door annoyance swung
out only a little bit

a breast bearing breakfast
which's the guy who did it
I asked him to wear my shirt

collaboration but the hollering japanese
then they're laughing so it wasn't thought assault
and I knew I was to vacuum because it blocked the door
and I wasn't about to break it just to
if you've watched a back adjusted
gotten to without puncture

1 comment:

Anonymous said...

This one accelerates towards the period. Falls miraculously into perfect place, even after its explosion.