D I S C O N T I N U E

Discontinue

          

          catalogues record the days

Half discarded way full of blank

     unnamed arise and fall away

They wait are they called on

Space in private intrude not better

Walk this we as if full with arms

We drop socks pick to stoop

And grab ourselves in fits

Comedy sheds

Blunders all the evidence

So sad yes lies in thought

The flood of feel you coming

From the catalogues: a

Spontaneous chaos advocate the of

Improvisational legends made

These thoughts that arise in arbitrary grid

Are pulled away

The color is red, the image: a

Bellows. 

Unknown

Unknown

Condition Interruptus

Falls like snow on the silent evening home where when

Faced with the view of all possible actions we avert our eyes or

do not choose an expression to read in

all that misspent money or retrospect chose not

choice with our proximity constraint now broken

remains our interruption

pulled for scrap

value now highlighted now thrust

into away the center from stage

strange grammar

the days feeling the

height of falling the land appears just the best AbEx you ever saw

but it tells of none smaller

material

the material of your day s was how and

the refractions of light inside these walls of

falling            from

higher than the birds to land soft in

this breast on this day

 “I have to get out of this”

the result not conclusion

sending it back out in refractions

(never) changes

it self is under where the action

is not sleeping but not moving being

but not opens to

gather the strands

yanking them from the throat

down to the guts

‘it’ becomes relationship and ‘we’

becomes just becomes

some becalmed story

put to sleep

never more lovely than

more lonely

then more lovely

than

material

material generating generating material couture

empirical excise cannot fight

techno-gig

runs without thinking

come on un

zip no lip

synching professionalism and pomp

other p words fit

my platform haven’t you noticed

we’re absolutely in it there’s no

question the man sweetie wasn’t

trying to scar you drunk

he's just and doesn’t know

this child is over

there by the pile of hammers Daddy

shouldn’t yell so maybe

 that’s not true

You make words with

your big hammer:

Human services human. Etc.

Over and again story

of my life mine

the be/st  (a)

       lets do property hop

        a train lets you go

        vroom 

I n t e r r o g a t i o n

smoke scrambled a picture ascension hung over the line between new form and notes a not sufficiently developed distanced ironic mysticism this theory is a toy-child whose body isn’t even anymore people want pizzazz and pizza want to read with a drunk on a tear slips down the face of the statue of nobody doing the busy busy doing the popular activity hereby reproached simply by mention what the intention are you thinking you think you are writing

you look off into the sky while typing the words is there any beer in the fridge for a potbellied narcissist who sweats pages of proto-narration congealed into this gloop of a sauce but a casserole won’t wait just serve it

that’s your pitch whose talking stop butting in that’s final she’s walking fuck this fuck that revenge must be hot you have to get revenge fresh from the market that morning

now we can’t get back in the garden of forking paths the walls are made of fog the rocket ship made of logs somewhere somebody please she can’t reach her arms are that small and then we abandoned the she voice to find animals in the sky very worthwhile and logical they make a lot of a sense totally whose brain said that to a dog and a fly at the same time both replied you’ve got to be kidding but they rsvp’d regardless sometimes you have to play the game SHE was in the broom closet drunk on vitamin water and you were enchanting in your hoop skirt 

ID entity

 shut up faces of places we go we are tired of trying to board my presence we don’t mention you crying you envy that edge for to keep it from coming to bear on the matter the pressure disaster swelling above the crowd the swelling crowd bearing on their hands a hard rhetoric a cask draped in the black banner provided its note through the new tone mounted in fear pressing down harder trying to fit the lips of the process over the sex of the concept how irresponsive regardless heartless wish it had never started.

WEnare the face of places, tired we flip through the catalogue of instances try and find an situation that will fiT the mood Fit to feed computing machine bleep blop a punchcard pops out your mouth the langage of pressure the invisible presence a-a cream IN visible creams hard bearing there where they’re revolving in the center where all the threads are blended the crowd gathered Under the grey half dome Under the giant tRemors begin irRepresSible not thoughtS exactly an image you can Run with - why has the crowd gathered

                        They / upset / something (are, about)

       - Why has the helicopter / (arrived)

Private security

In one of these buildings perhaps in a suit e

The target trembling / (hiding) a function

ary ultimately a chain of puppets; )

that is what  one pulls back

                                      the curtain  reveal a tower high as justice

all types / motion / happening (of, are) helicopters garner attention with their roar the little droplets

glisten

pouring from their bellies, look see the muzzles poking out

the sides gleam like camera lenses they are ready to take pictures

                        The crowd is passing a small box

            around in pah there upstretched hands s a picture on the box, but we can’t make it out. Goodbye.

New Poem

Associate

Stoners and welders burn through the pot black space a light left slug trails? It gets under your pants. It burns. The form of the face hidden in the open sex impact we feel land we flee tour-selves.

We must have got lost, this place is not where we left. Everything is bigger or smaller than it was. Ratio between the now-size and the past-size:  adjustable relation. As we ration the memory of our lovers gaze breaks in the face of (this) gathering mass hot like melted iron (abrupt redaction).

Interrogation 4

The days soft from deluge rain

the deluge spent the beautiful day

in the cavern dream

echo of music

I no longer follow

The last cry of an animal the sound

n my ears looking over the bad poetry

such dumb, rough tongue as not fit for metaphor

the exaltation of decay

a day-dream of No

Consequences

and the outside world

wear cold splendor belongs

to anyone more spot on,

more talented than yourself

Intelligence, such as it is,

self-pitying and grand

 this is o.k.

this is people

grist for the mill.

The insinuation: being.

This mess is dirtying,

but to become more seems half-

a raggy chew
toy with

this navel

gazing

Consequence: