A slight argument
A realization that half the trees are weeds,
Our house of many stations:
Dear the glorious bastard within.
Inside the wife molted of lingerie and meaning.
It’s sad to have so many rooms and so little effect.
Bulimia nervosa tuberose delight.
Because there are always weeds.
Because sunlight irritates.
When darkness fails, there are beeswax candles,
Anomaly: structural smoke and mirrors.
In order to break with the past, we break.
When we are naked.
This conflagration of money and lack of affect
means I lay me down among the marigolds
The road becomes a higher function
The homestead of the automobile
make this Interstate America one long cool drink of ravish.
Everything a bit pillaged
Across the quarry
Can we eat your lemon pie
And dare we obliterate this obliteration
Those who are not allowed to sit still
which doesn’t diminish the skill of the sitter
The Expressive functions:
Just as beautifully the television is moonlight
the small white debit amour cantata.
The reception of boys as a matter of culture.
Let the line end there.
Television a severity of presence.
Shape it into something.
Flood fires earthquake.
This night was meant for travel.
The moon that clear an icon.
He will sleep with the girls.
The gibbous moon.
“You stayed in that hotel called your daughter’s arms” (Bernadette Mayer)
At every turn is clarification and portraiture.
This is a transaction upon your entirety
In some quarters, it’s called connoisseurism.
My quarter is available light
There in the absence of light, a grander purpose.
That is a bowl of likeness.
The artist leaning against a wall.
Wouldn’t you like to be forced into encountering
Wouldn’t you like the idea of light
Exchange is an exaltation.
Clipped from the vine
A subterfuge involving
Fling open the doors