Old Poems New Poems

A piece I wrote called “Nothing Particularly Local Going On” is part of the latest issue of [out of nothing], a quite wild and interactive journal if I must say so.  The current issue is aesthetically hard to peg and I really like that about it.

Two years back the following five poems were in the now defunct journal Sub-lit.  Because they can no longer be found there I thought that I’d just post them here.

Day to Be

Absconded with sexual speculation our first hang.  Beauty, as if out of can and of cupboards released.  Champion, you were, knees hugged in, the centripetal force of night and the windows because closed.  Darling, if I am to call you that, dare I deliver a sitting in what was here before our having dismantled the glance?  Every small part of how the fence swung into where all the dogs pondered flourishes—their fracas, their exhaustive yawp at our being inside.  Guileless, how I wanted you so but from me as.  How to hold out a hand and because returning itself to.  I’m nearing insuperable difficulties in cultivating the vision;  the joke’s on us:  drink on what this would be if to jibe.  Kudos.  Laconic to come lethargic in little little love levee.  Mostly I’ve taken the idea of a search out of the machinations and never here a screen.  Never keeping something open when the something doing so shuts.  Oh dear, oh how oscillating between be and seem we’ve been seen.  Parts of me pellucid for you, how you notice my tongue getting ready to call you, how I have a penchant for bringing our patio of whispers into patois.  Quailed when you called, became unqualified for calm.  Recently why shadows matter, shadows in the shape of seeming to not want be.  To be tenuous in the terrestrial reference or in after-schooling it slam on home. Unbelievable ability to rile up, to fill a vacuum.  Vacuums fill up and I know a water flowing.  Why water is flowing, why we chose this spot—X marks it; X is being above believing and unbelievably a seeming to be.  You know this darling, and how kitchens beget zealots.  Zealots of hand-clap and the democratic relapse, or what from beauty we will put on our table to eat tonight.

Modern Channel Changing

Who had nineteen stolen bases impacts impact contract negotiated / two hits last night bluffing to first / traditional straight up what the heck / the young right hander speed balls woman but with man only woman / lost the pitch winds up in scoring position / straight up with Americans traditional / the one pitch catchers don’t prepare for / I will not avoid nuance support support / continuously tonight tonight in the lead / my answer traditional clear plans clear / wild pitches pitch the count and count / plans impact impact I am thankful / good / got a hard breaking ball fast ball good /  plan surge I am thankful that we implemented / a low but bright young star once / hero go there great Americans lose there /  two innings of relief but has not started  / we be no better off / we have got to win /  swings at a breaking pitch outside / surge down to resurge troops troops / last night’s winning pitch good / fast grow / military grow against terrorists / most important lead off double in the / be so be so great troop your plan is white / swings and misses white  swings move the  / flag of surrender for sure / the surge surging / that will bring up the next batter next / impact we’ll know finished government / who walked last night and struck it out / governing securing in working / working / averaging many a game no mistakes knowing / knowing victory in sight  / breaking ball over for a strike and / regarding impact you / you in fact you gave up empty / the top hitters / said ticket of ticket impacts / honor go / no balls and two strikes / honor the military another story

Because Words Only Out of Your Face

This is the visit I wanted you to have with me, the texture portends deepness.  I was with gnocchi, risotto, better woolen avenues for dropping the plastic lot.  Came signing my name on signs instructing a boat.  This better coin count.  I push the humans into my sigh with.  Don’t worry about the comb.  To brush back a notice the page turns breathing from the mouth to the nose to the shank of tongue chance.  Neck rocking fearing paragraph extant.  The button too a dime to crawl in next to the resident with.  I a copper, no a silver president, nickel.  You fist perfectly my neck pouch.  So many hairs never sandwich.  Taking coffee in the paper glance.  Speedreading.  Iron legs to frame the window.  Sound of having to gesture when arguing although in phone.  Public restitching.  Undeserved tolerance for mid test pencil drop.  You took beard to me.  This is getting beard. Sometimes the shape of a beard makes every word a theory.  The theory takes no comb and the comb is button relapse.  The shape of a beard brings the dinner utensils inside the mouth and the fingers get licked.  The licked fingers carry a napkin over to the sofa where we find our marveling digital.  Mostly elegant, a davenport we capitulated with shameless sconces in the soup battle.  Here a finer dinghy to dine in, done drummed, over done.  I have taken a butter knife to my neck.  The beard took the butter knife and the flowers in our table are anything but ample, agrarian tumblers scotchless in the frock-fest where the fucksakes foiled.  Barren wonders of the snout.  Every time a squinting.  Don’t imagine sun will.  Want you in my napkin this beard.  Beard and sport-jacketed congestion dance.  Took a pinky in the wrist.  Found out about the chancellor through your throat cramp.  Every sport particularly political.  To brush back the tongue into what the beard did to the dinner table.  The belting of purpose even as un.  I took your business in my suit in my constant addressing of flesh.  When eyes trolley.  Mostly a beard again and quite onto.  Your plate is so clean.  Your paltry switch.  I asked the waiter to demand the woman put her cry back on.  Her, the desert snorkeled phantom necromancer.  Beard breaks table, tasked braking in face a time.  Swallow your goddamned sit.  Third time we found the course the course beards.  I see a silvering in approach, eat a caramel in seven bites as to last with syllables the sweetness of sit.  Alone again big beard big great beauties bearding bold boy beard again cream too cinnamon spangled attributes boy bearding honey having honey gravy great stash of mouth beard.  Reporting another problem. The group well added to itself a favorite thing, the sometime shape of a beard, geometrically speaking, hammered its hand to the eating position and we ran the shoes forth in glorious forms of mail stamp.  Chesting into the beer stalks.  I would like to consider you beard in the visit.

Note Through a Pass Darkly

Another distance I was out for: took my refusal to be lulled into the complacency of self with me on a picket.  Are you inside? The aftertaste of book marked during door knock—the ideas are being introduced early; but to debunk them systematically?  I was first up the jetty, found it all refreshing. This way we don’t lose our dignity. Took note, bulwark against the thinner bathrobe of the coast. We’ll harden ourselves and reprimand for what the tin can collected in the open spread. There is a summer fleece and that skirt so flush; maybe it’s the shock therapy collecting on my bill, or a warning that we will have to row another boat out.  Thanks, I’ve never seen you like this before.  Once the caps came over lightly and all too overly enlightened.  We need charting out of the place of shifts and reversals and how unfortunate that the promise broke open here. I shall meat my true love another thyme; modernize assemblage.  Take a pipe out to the blandished shore as to augment this:  having fallen is our only normal construct.  We made a point of writing in our calendars, even highlighting them.  History seemed overconfident; the boozer with the high tolerance. I’ve found you harping darkly as I dart partly in the round, and I have deciphered that a reasonable amount of guilt will be laid down and that from it we will become a noise similar to heat.  Glass me after this variegated zoom on the prefix.  Not all four wheels bump off the basin for an outreach worth mapping.  In the best move possible I still fill up at a newer station and accentuate your angularities, gondola-going and a hankering after.   I wanted to ask you what kind of sense you purchase—smell so good my whole face hurts.  Here I’ve implanted a bloody checklist for our logistical longing:  take off with a kiss.

Ten Items or Less Please Æ

after Christine Hume

:food stompÆ through:  sigh-shoot:  tax-sin the wheeledcart:  bite the snack:  turn everythingÆ into gum: ten for ten dollars:  no checks taken:  hot-pocketed:  soda codes: alcoholic miscues:  direÆ conspiring:

It is NOT TRUE:  I have never looked around at a concert when someone wasn’t even supposed to be* arriving; never even worried on the arrival of someone to nod-nudge and middle-knuckle-back-itch during beer-balance.

It is TRUE:  I have never been in a relationship* with your shadow; I am from where the city meets the country and if you call that cliché* I will turn you; I take a picture of you taking a picture of that stage band and I guess you sing along to songs.

It is NOT TRUE:  I have never been the man who liked the two women* under the rural reef; but I have come out of cavern-tavern with coin sediment and wiped twice the side slap of go-home.  This is the first time this will be released on a two-disc DVD.

The pillars installed within my propulsion are not to be trusted.  I would like to believe they’ve been stuck into the me you threw, but I’ve never worn specs during such elation—the tangible firs of trope! Scoped out movement of mope!  Forget the academically-dunked profusions of polemicists, look at me now.*

It is NOT TRUE:  I have never spiked* the family punch, never even thunk it up til’ now; but I have drunk all the liquids of a house whose inhabitants were vacationed away.

It is NOT TRUE:  I am not the only man to steer a toboggan of cracked* lust, steer a gutted out sled* through its hometown trench, spit a tobacco* strand at middle-airs of contemplation, or draw with canker sores an imprint on the math-theatrical screen-door.

No fuuken way.

It is TRUE:  I am the only purple-toothed perpetrator of Robitussin’s* rattle-empty.  I was rock-topped in the Squamish middle stream and saw my nakedness advance into the skin-shallow whitefish.  I lost hair in the water-ruins below moon-shave, bald-born as the river went around a friend’s tent.  My legs, rejected by the wayward hairs, saw into the silk-sink through surface-stew.

It is NOT TRUE:  I have been stranded in the dam*, but I was seen by all the visitors*.  My wave didn’t turn to apparition or anything like a photograph.  My voice didn’t carry like the other end of the phone, or even the lifting of mosquito from bonfire wrists.  A flush of willow may have given vision into physicals, but I had cropped the high O’s of Minnesota long before we knew the loon; upon it, it’s not wild to be a cube-crack in the ice-moon’s glam, whoo-wee forestry.

It IS:  During crop season the flourmills tongue-struggle in their river challenge.  Closed down, I have been open for an unknown hour or two and taken guests*.  I claim many larger things underneath the rhyme, but everyone knows the importance of coupling the not-forgottens of convulsion.  You like to naysay your way through, because it reasons your slouch*.


Æ {the checkout lane is taking forever but Christine Hume is pretty}

Æ stomp {chew}

Æ everything {something}

Æ dire {the wires are}

* supposed to be {thinking about}

* relationship {an argument}

* cliché {interesting}

* the man who liked to the two women {second of bubbling}

* spiked {afforded the ingredients of}

* cracked {labored for}

* sled {bed}

* tobacco {love}

* purple-toothed perpetrator of Robitussin’s {baby who wanted the}

* dam {top bunk}

* visitors {saints}

* guests {new apparel}

* slouch {stance, stammer, sink}

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