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1.1

 
 
        The crackle! 
  kind snaps 
      high exchange 

 
 
 blowout 
        medium 
   lows. 

 
 
 Cross the bridge 
  breathe, 
     pirate 
     woodcutter 

 
 
 Tremor of paths unfit 
  removed 
          stained roads. 

 
 
 The fight extends, pulls 
  taut 
     a 
      shutter, 
 giving light 

1.2

"Range of pleasure,"
taken for
obtuse findings
grit of the fake

all wonder functions
according to the (I) will change
sullen willingness,
under-spoken nest

hustle fall seeds–
Spring
corners you.

"And you want to tell me how you cannot
understand when eyes overstand a
shallow voice, hemmed-up lips, uncrossed legs,"

corner on you
lights
all
on
more puzzling
higher pitched and higher
by
comfort scores
childhood stories (parent and sibling)
roaming heart (trust in)
national disaster
color-by-number trees...

"I could hum the tune for pleasure, please no,
the photocopied timbre,
blushing–blood backs into whispers over clout."

1.3

Place

Gold still yellow oval kitchen table
arm rest fits laugh memory
all plugs chrome salt potato
look on
adoring your central role
eating times these
instances of vased arrangements

orange too blue to white
(jealous refrigerator heckles with currency)
you withstand on all fours
have been swept around—
cajoled tangled spilled rubbed.

Not for a clammering iron skillet or toaster
copper fork prey companion spice

(wait in the dark while the offices are bright)
always home in aroma
primary collage, informal coatrack

soon there coffee
hot news, keys, kneading—

So clean, then more, a ceiling is never too high
when stacking means more.

 
 
 YOU are a tongue, an open mouth, a state masking me 
   I scream— 
   you stay circa 1959 
   said you would, 
   that day, you, 
   rusting, 
 were found in the back of a farm house in Sonoma. 

1.4

Cut flowers
not gangly house plants Goldie Hawn might have
nourished when
butterflies
were free
but combat boots (jock socks) on electric buses
slivers of whipping eyes

momentum is everything.

thinking in watercolors
act in strobes
at ease is the way
veal scallopine is ordered at
Il Giardino's Ristorante on West Portal
stiff drinks
smart big smiles

Party invitations handed out on Castro street corners
for a crowd without crowds.

Doomists (dead Marilyns, Morticias)
draped in sludge
begging for a nature they can stand.

The piercing sun on morning nipples
waking this fine day
spokes and jokes and fax machines
better dizzy than without a deal.

There—
from a bored biospheric tofu fiesta
there—
are under-nourished shouts for slight metaphors
and allusions.
Their—
eyes, but not ears so quick in judgment
so shy behind stereo walkwoman and numbed
by private auto exhaust.

Tradition! Tradition!

They've killed the French Horns now youth is left where?
(know someone who goes fishing and builds homes
with his hands)
Yet taxis with turkeys and hills without land make
for wonderful catches
and
facades I can stand.

 
 
 There is no quiet in imagined rain. 
       [Teach the ear— 
        see, 
           hear now 
       how a gift unwraps] 

The sandwich is ready from Community Blend
plastic discarded in appropiate bins—

The place is nothing without its sins.


 

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