Tuesday, April 13

reams, bent, peeling

much to be said of hurricanes and the nest of the eggs of your misery, lifted, feathered, arranged on the beach like messages under flight paths yet untraced by airplanes never built

much to be said of how if the ribs don't splinter, they rot; of pits and mounds; of the most visible structure being your obscurity, your caution & your cloaks — and the beacons scalpels excising, the beacons misdirection

unfamiliar stars at night confuse your calendars

and so so much said to be forgotten, too far too quiet from the seismographs in the heart of her, the court stenographer — in the sun, the stirring a prize worse than the vapors escaping — though in the half light . . .

no, too much, too much: your quilt of palms against the rain & the ink you owe, your belt of fibers spun into your still-grown hair . . . and then your eyes, your eyes no more eyes than the mimic's on bright wings & blind back, your face a false countenance of mating & intimidation

too many unfamiliar stars that you choke on, grit in your tea, grain of your overexposure

and long unaccounted for the remains, the remaining, the wind & the weathered aggregate, the tide & horizon, the bedded ash & the cataract stones dropping from your shoulders, arranged on the beach indistinguishable from the long-drawn reaccumulation which would be anyway, the unthought & unknowable affect of your south pacific

instead of

has anyone said your mind though tame now will become a beautiful ruins

has anyone said don't worry this hasn't come from the papers / this won't be on the news

has anyone come and filled up your bathtub with very hot water and felt so comfortable that then they succeeded at everything they ever tried to do

and then vanished

i'm not saying anything but

can i consider the color in all these leaves so much & so often that technically they no longer have to exist and don't exist and then exist only by a choice which they enjoy very much

if i stay without moving for a very long time will the dead skin paring off me eventually form a pile at my feet visible like the base of a statue

has anyone said to you something so long that they forgot they were talking to you and not thinking only

has anyone ever said something so long that people suddenly took form out of nothing

this is what i am talking about, i mean

can i approximate something so well that it, instead of the thing, it, the approximation, is made into the news and then i succeed at everything i try to do

i need you to help me with this

can i say

has anyone

so that then they um


can i approximate something so well that technically it no longer exists even though it wanted very much to

can i consider at length everything happening within me and how to approximate the sum of all of these operations so well that the number is indistinguishable from me and then the number replaces me

look at me and say in numbers

so many things

until there is nothing

that isn't

Sunday, April 11

from summer

good morning, cold morning

you showed us our breathing and we showed you our smoke rings

which in you, cold morning

were run thru confused and clung to by our breath

being no longer rings or plumes or even fluid casts of our pink lungs

but leviathans

above our throbbing heads, canopy-crest &

still strung in leaves like scales, like chimaera