I could say anything, and you wouldn’t know.
There is no one else.
Stand me on a chair, and call me Hope.
Loving is easy when you breathe God.
So many lives: I want to live them all.
Everyday with you holds an exquisite unoriginality.
Think: rational milk without guile.
A macaw squawks in my throat.
I’ve pilfered someone else’s passion.
He’s singin’ in Swahili & strummin’ a guitar.
A jar of ice jade melted.
You’re not welcome here.
I wish I could feel sincere.
The world is flat and I am a garden.
Sir, addressing the floor in such a manner is inappropriate.
Sulk—now there’s a mood in which to sink.
Too often I dwell atop a brink of petulance.
Come away with me. Be a gazelle.
She cried into the night.
What is right?
She cried into the light.
“Do you know what I feel when I pass by a mission? ”
She wears red silk scarves and carves birch boxes.
To each of 40 faces, he prayed, “I am you.”
Ich bin du.
What have you been through?
Here’s the unwelcome twist of the exhibitionist.
Today, we make the same decision again.
Such love is wearisome, a well without a bucket…
The rustling is too delicate, too distant…
Wonderment is a flesh thing, which crawls out of the cold.
Spatial slurs in a sphere of stars: listen.
I put chili peppers in sugar cookies.
She ignores me, so I chatter to the room.
I blame it on the air pressure, playing accordion with my brain cells.
I have no competition when it comes to barefoot races in the snow.
Nevertheless, I always end up burying dead soldiers.
How terrifying to be abandoned.
One cannot help but think of snakes.
My first wedding: I was the groom.
His hair shone like buttercups.
We are French, and fried green tomatoes taste like oysters in a rainstorm.
Truths: all mine smack me in the face.
Not every look is a leer; not every smile is a threat.
You forget and are forgotten.
Drama whirls, a kite in Kill Devil Hills wind.
Reading this, you are angry.
My teeth are chattering, and I cannot take back the trembling.
My mind is cluttered with cotton drifts.
It tickles my throat when I try to tease it into voice.
We are songs we are planets we are gypsies weaving peace.
Meaningless, meaningless, these words are empty; you are empty.
Whole empty cups respond; all categories dissolve.
You piss, you pass into the ground.
Must I let it die, this love?
How do you exist in so small a space?
A mask for every season, death without a reason.
The task of treason—not thinking.
They go on drinking stinking; we are shrinking out of rational into national.
I weep into a bowl of milk.
Murky, marginalized, we accept fear, the cost of the lost.
I clutch at cluelessness.
Mathematics does just this.
To be in pain is to be certain; to hear about pain is to be in doubt.
Terms of agency and damage: weapon and wound.
Life half loses—eventually the pushing stops.
Remember to brush your teeth.
Look at how I squandor you on the periphery of thought.
Once upon a time in Columbia, a woman said a man said her spirit.
I’ve been fighting the wrong, the wrong rage; we’re on a different page.
Until we are all free, no one is free.
April: I am not this man. I imagine herself munching on daisies.
(He eats cod and schemes in the park.)
Birth—wading through weeds, axiomatic, with a natural poverty of force.
Concept: writing of you, do I rob you of your voice?
Speak now of yourself. I will listen.
Stop using me for your erasures.
The narrative of my doubt is scattered throughout this consciousness.
We give failure the face of a bull’s eye: name the missed target, sin.
Which came first: the man, or the fruit in his throat?
Androgynous: similar in shape to an avocado.
They’re all products if you deconstruct—strain out the cruder forms, which clog the heart.
When it breaks, it shatters like inefficient light.
Trying to reconstruct speech into sense.
What does it mean, this writing on the body?
Voice got stolen by a violin, larynx now that of a bird.
You rely on the storm.
Thinking is as thinking does, and what does thinking do?
Religion is the consumer.
“She is offended. But so charming! ”
Stop being counter-intuitive, the crickets, the leaves, beseech love, love.
Failure must be an inventor who has lost faith in his hands.
You can run off, leave us here treading water; or stay, make some waves of your own.
Be angrier than you are.
Melt the clocks.
Anger without blame, without an anvil, demands cooperation.
Are certain emotions lost in the absence of certain sounds?
Waiting: a principal of bodily, psychological, and moral tension.
We are bound to the notions of love and loss.
Maintaining peace is a war, but it is a smouldering, internal one—
What then, is inner peace?
What you gave away—that is yours.
“Sometimes I think of him as a friend. Sometimes I think of him as an armed robber.”
Sometimes I wish I were a metaphor.
Pessimists die young. Join the shrugging daisies.
For half a year, I’ve been living in a free form brainstorm.
“When I die, I don’t rejoin…I just stop waiting.”
He was blank or white or both, a gun or a shovel.
We are cardinals, each of us.
I, a wench floating when I should not.
Forest, may I sit in you a while?
Let’s start by soothing the voracious gaping red rush.
Holy bulbous jittery rock.
Power equals time into energy.
Displacement: work divided by weight.
Now predict the hertz of hurts.
Time cannot be told. The ocean listens to what cannot be said.
Every hour I call out to you, ambivalent, a glorified pendulum.
The secret is swinging: the back and forth convinces you to move forward.
Professional loneliness is an irony too far, even for me.
Scattering cigarette butts in a bed merging with March.
The gulls have been crying, the crows flying, for hours.
The sky rusts; lily-white smoke dusts the horizon.
You’re locked in a room with nothing but news, listening to blues.
The pathway narrows, as thorn become arrows.
What do you want from me?
Post-exilic embodiment closes canon walls.
Themes of vanity: kitten spitting rainbow.
They fear you more than you do them.
Curses flung from the flag of your tongue blow like a blessing from the Himalayas.
I have a preference for a lack of style.
All groovy yellow plump mess.
The heart knows ow—low bow, slow wow.
There’s a certain sadness to soft ground.
There can be no queen.
What I see is not what I mean.
Robert the Bruce belonged in a noose.
Everyone can rhyme, but who has the time?
I like thinking of you thinking of clouds.
I have no father or mother, and one day you will understand.