Sunday, April 24, 2011


it's like the truth's there, mineral
the day is ratty
a yogurt special strains the woman
big arms craddling eight, nine, with a cart

and I think she can overhear, 7-
4- (no, she can't), my sister's discount ID I put in

I am at a pink gate that is very loud without a language
the escape of the medium that's, famously, Chopin's piano, Shostakovich's string quartet,
only the only apolitical space, which means only you can see there
the politic move, that it has not engulfed the [read me] field

this is music
this is Faustus

there is a guy who steps into the garden for salvation
but I step in to present such conditions as I may fail a crop

swallowing chalk to feel my gut settle
is deliberating, a squashling conscription
in the firm sun that while I think you are awful
is through skylights in contempt of rest: how
are you tired how are you not in a bed

you are pretty and, like music, not here
I think when you lie on the couch with your head off
like a cat with spread legs but not that position
you are an angelic and (you are not asleep!) energetic lamb
that has made up hate to call out and to so lose

you get more assumed of the map without growing
you remind that "my how she's grown" is deference
to there being nothing of your haunt of form, of the hung kill
in their like your face

you are assigned an early grave
and you can't eat there
the earth eats you in a bowl

I wish you knew more about forfeiture legality
I pick you up
it's then I wish the sun weren't in the skylights
prompting you lay on your gut which means I had to flip you
and you woke up and didn't grace me immediately

was it ok that Thoreau could see his mom from his spot?
that Percival Lowell had eyes a little fucked
but with his telescope was convinced of Martian agriculture?

Lowell's was a romance, ex:
I see canali.
Because I left them.

No comments: