as I play in the guise of the
old trick cup that stays dry and
overflows at the same time and
is soon set on a high shelf once
the nostalgia has outgassed but
no maybe that’s too far so what
else an unmolested wooden block
a townhouse for parasite birds
but no this palimpsest is badly smudged
and besotted with globs where light
is most needed and it takes time
to unwind even a few sounds
to spool into a small sequence
then we need to buy all that salt
Tag: salt
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in an age when close and distant cloud
I make what you won’t want to eat and wait
for the snow scrape and salt that wakes us too
early or too late little mountains pen
in sugared cars I try to lift this snowwith homemade rhythm into clouds
like berries almost black but how
long do I have to long for long-lasting
mud and birds who stay a bit and fly backa breath that leaves green leaves to shake
so let’s finish the crackers and
call them cookies we can watch amovie through the neighbor’s window
just balance on this pile of skulls
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Some mornings it takes only half
a word and the rotten dough starts
its sticky churn—a squirrel darts
blindly into the street—crows laugh—bubbles that smell like blistered feet
pop pop pop. The dough grows until
it overflows and spills its fill
from patio to doorbell. Beatthis image down and let it rest.
Don’t blame the tattered recipe,
flour, or salt. In an hour I’ll plea
for sweetness like a man possessed.I see the mess these thought have brought—
Bread that’s just holes. I’m glad we fought.
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I want to tell it as honestly as I can. They were all masks. The indecipherable cartoons. The levitation. Phrases plucked from a radio in an abandoned car. Trying to appear simple to hide a different simplicity. New Ugaritic hymns on vintage clay. It all fed some demon that fed me unfortunate moods. Quasimodo as Beckett playing Don Quixote with a shard of glass in his or just K. Kat singing to the mittens the moment before the impact of love gee aren’t images grand?
Though immobilized by what those thoughts might and whether they could be liked loved subscribed to at midnight this pen becomes a pin when the free preview expires but I have groundhog burrows to inspect and potatoes to prepare, which brings me back to, and by which I hope to prove, once and for almost all, in the fullness of, and we’ll see how it goes. But soon the orange smear of our star glittering just slow enough out of this restless salt and then
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Having darkened my hand with dark ink in
an age when close and
distant are cloudy unaided having
made so much that nobody wants to eat I wait for the latest
historic storm and the
scrape and salt that wakes us too early
or too latemodel mountains pen in
sugared cars I try tolift the snow with a wave
of homemade rhythm into
sky like berries almost blackbut do I fracture some rule with
this spell how many feet do I haveto long for long-lasting mud
and the birds whovisit though we won’t learn
their names this yeareither but the tracks lead
to a curve turningback on itself with a smile
the breath leavesgreen leaves shake
so let’s finish off the crackers
and call them
cookies we can watch
a movie through the neighbor’s
window just
balance on this skull
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Sometimes you start
with a blank page other times
there’s no choicethe world before
you were bornprefers a simple table
salt, pepper, a clean glass
still water and when
voices risewalks out to the balcony
thinks about the cigarettes we
smoked and flicked without thoughwe would never imagine
doing that today with all thein the air and settling
down into the roots of your hairyou hardly need the stones
as you walk into the lake
other animals 