Today: Anomaly.

A slight argument
with the prevailing aesthetic.

A realization that                       half the trees     are weeds,
and many thoughts                    trail off             before resolving.

Our house of many stations:
garden                         silence              hunger
window                        corporeal          water                sorrel.

Dear the glorious bastard within.
Dear the negative capability of linoleum floors.

Inside the wife               molted                          of lingerie and meaning.

It’s sad to have so many rooms              and so little effect.
Nervous laughter                   oh dear you need a licking.

The kitchen.
The elusive feminine charms                              say heels                       when gardening.

Bulimia nervosa tuberose delight.

Because there are always weeds.
I sin upon the ideal body.

Because sunlight                                    irritates.
We find ourselves                                  in darkness.

When darkness fails,                              there are beeswax candles,
the triumph of tiny holes                        in the appetite.

A room for me a room for dolly.

Anomaly:                                  structural smoke and mirrors.
Today:                                      wrong project executed flawlessly.

In order to break with the past,              we break.

When we are naked.
Things realign.
This forest.
This desire                                to create                        impossible interiors.

This conflagration of money and lack of affect
and no clear idea of why one does anything

means I lay me down among the marigolds
a child pulled out in frustration
and rub my hands against the ground
saying nothing to it I have wanted to say nothing to.




The road becomes a higher function
where the question of location
is a niche
besotted of purveyors.

The homestead of the automobile
and the recalcitrance
of back-country

make this Interstate America                                          one long cool drink of ravish.

Everything        a bit pillaged
a bit brutal

Across the quarry
Across the salt lick
In the floating flower beds of the dreamy Midwest
                                                                                                            an insouciant storytelling.

Space limited.
House maladroit.
Midwestern demoiselle,

won’t you
run away with me?

Can we eat your lemon pie
as         a trolley of nightingales?
Will you sit by the window
            and narrate
the lovelessness
                                    out there?

      And dare we obliterate this obliteration
      with your cherry lip balm?

But,      wait,
this is no Midwestern lady.
I am
alone                in a train station
a wrecked pastoral                     by which
mobility is both variable and constant                 to opportunity.
Up to the café counter lithely
            two herbal teas              in a cardboard carrier.
The counter boys are cruelty-free and kissing.
Their sticky sugars unbleached and unrefined.
And yet the vision falters
with the premise that stillness is a form of motion

My Midwest
            will come back to me a thousand times
in my mind       even stuck in the desert
                                    in a health food emporium         where concubines         
                                    eat almonds                  from the wings of the almond branches.

Those who are not allowed                    to                     sit still
            are also                         not allowed                   to move

which doesn’t diminish  the skill             of the sitter
      or the traveller
      any more than the decision to change time zones      changes the time.




The Expressive functions:
pronoun usage              and the aggression
of genderizing               re-presents itself.

Just as beautifully the television is moonlight


the small white debit                  amour cantata.

The reception    of boys                         as a matter of culture.
Taking boys      into one’s arms                         in the    “moonlight”.
My boy            a tonic,             my boy            a leap of fancy
my boy                         mortgage          my boy                         television
my boy                                     nonsense.

Let the line                    end there.
We are unable                to make it meaningful
so it      dwindles           into continuance.

Television a severity of presence.

Shape it into something.
There are miles and miles of fire out there.

Flood                           fires                  earthquake.

This night                     was meant for travel.
Obsession                    was meant to be            a process
in our
education was meant for calibration.

The moon that clear an icon.

The emptiness.
The sound of it.
We have            no choice          but                               to gnaw it off.


He will sleep with the girls.

The gibbous moon.
The necessary obsessions.

“You stayed in that hotel called your daughter’s arms” (Bernadette Mayer)

At every turn     is          clarification and portraiture.
But we have missed it.




This is a transaction upon your entirety
by your fragmentation.
A chiaroscuro 
by which we want to own

the random
as well as logic,
meaning the ordering of light by reason,
the estrangement of light by empiricism.

In some quarters, it’s called connoisseurism.
In some quarters, it’s called theft.

My quarter is available light
and yours is an aphorism
beginning with the assumption of  lightlessness.

There in the absence of light, a grander purpose.
A climactic sense of  value visited upon
the tableau, meaning
      just beyond our reach.

That is a bowl of likeness.
That is non-representational enterprise.
That is a word for color visited upon
the subjugation of color into system.

The artist leaning against a wall.
Gently gently the light…

Wouldn’t you like to be forced into encountering
      the process?
Screaming in the triptych like a banshee.

Wouldn’t you like the idea of light
to be revealed for the lie that it is?

Exchange is an exaltation.
Technique is a transaction across exchanges        of light and color.

Clipped from the vine
detached from systemic constraint.

A subterfuge involving
light and its captivity,
an effort toward beginning
at the end of a process
we have no faculty for.

Fling open the doors
      of mannerism. There
      is the maneuver of light into shadow.
Or is it a repetition of  “light   shadow” “light  shadow”
     as if the desire for light
          were so awkward a thing…