A spoon is a spoon. Art isn't a spoon
but this is debatable. Light becomes color
in painting and space the holes in hollowness.
Pieces have been replaced by degrees.
The reality behind a muggy afternoon.
Obsessive behavior is more complex
than you might expect. A mental filing system.
The way flowing water catches the light.
A shock of hair. The alphabet is a
short dictionary of the spatial world.
At this unique distance from isolation
fucking sounds like flip-flops on a muddy path.
How I wish now I could invent a brand
new color just for you to daze the night.
fruits and vegetables
like those in
time magnolia abandoned
head and open
might do ravel
When you sleep dreaming in and out
of language what language do you dream into?
Magnolias pin abandoned divas
to telephones while heifers stand like statues
in a farm field bordering a lake where
half-sunken boat houses contemplate what
the wind might do. Memory mirrors
the size of night singing tint to the horizon.
Living rooms are alive with conversation.
She's wearing black tights and an oversized
sweater. Nested eggs in a trance.
Individual raindrops go splat
on the windshield each leaving a tiny
island of wet on the dusty glass.
is myth hands are
covered up with
is born in
the object the something
you believe in words
a confusion sky
Time has no significance in these territories
beyond the time it takes the wind to shift.
Light falls from her breasts to her thighs.
Face to face inventing with moistened fingers
culling archaic lyrics from this double
current of fugitive phenomena
inside that nest where birds startle into flight.
So many closets with mirrored doors.
Sleepless photographs. Another winter
sweated out while languages find a way
into one another. In the republic
of letters articles of mind are putting
spokes in the wheels of your unspoken thoughts.
The well executed turn of phrase.
like a wing
budge red clump stars among white dwarves
splotched a terrific afternoon
miles away a hill
minus a dimension
delicate as an animal
end to longing
letters line the horizon
Bush-league towns that neither leaf nor blossom.
News of lost continents sunken beneath
seas and of the sites of future sidewalks.
Suicide by self-fascination.
Trial by fire. Trial by phone tag. This sphere is
the deputized checker-board of nights and days.
Your shirt and socks (the black silk ones with golden clocks)
have been seen crossing the plains on a bicycle
seeking the great perhaps. Speech situates
the self in relation to the other.
Life they say in these parts is one damn thing
after another. Sensations words and
memories continually derail
trains of thought. Everything is distance.
canceled images conceding
places conspiracy theory
at this intersection of
a meaning future or past
fictions to believe
The dreams of mechanisms are criminals
articulated for action separated
from the process of realization.
Relativistic cultures fast forward.
Infinity's a two-way street and you are
the second person trying to get across.
Unpunctuated desires punctuate
diminishing shelf-lives. Exclamation
points. Raw data. Troubling statistics.
Life has become a zed and two noughts.
Time is a work of fiction. The events
described here including the appearance
of Willard Scott are purely imaginary.
The whole day was a story-book day.