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Tuesday, November 9, 2010


--for Nick McCabe

As the India Palace burned to the ground

caramel light poured from warm windows,

swing dancers stood still. Weathermen frowned.

Laws too complex to be implemented
curled like a liver on Friday.

My teachers told me long ago
to breathe in deep
when things got rough
but now they say I sigh too much

and like a decomposing theory under test,
the body racking up debt,
one of summer’s last cicadas

forget metaphysical
revelations in the sidestreets.

The future is hungry
for what we are lacking
it will never receive--

a sense of purpose all but blown
to my mind
as to pudgy adolescents,
wrists in their hands
wondering when
their completion's achieved,
when confusion will slow
when scenarios
cease to cancel scenarios.

When caramel light pours from warm windows
every school year

I stop and dream
what it must feel like
to not be forever eighteen.


On the seashore of endless worlds children meet. At first they do not discern very clearly whence comes the strange agitation that reigns in this place. A wax bubble moon trembles on the honey blue horizon. The sea is black as a field of violets. How will they ever enjoy being in a land to which they are not accustomed?

A vast similitude interlocks all—all identities that have existed or may exist on this globe or any globe. Advancing rapidly to destinies beyond the reach of mortal eye. They say to each other Let us be like two falling stars in the day sky. And so this night is divine, more than any of the others.

But no time is given them to reflect.

What they believe in waits latent forever throughout all the continents. Latent forever.

To fall asleep here is to wake up there.

Last night a white apple fell from the loneliest tree in the world.

Not so much as a seed of that apple exists any longer.

I still hear them singing the rhymes of goodbye.


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Thursday, November 4, 2010


I'd become a successful omnivore
scrambling fear and grabbing what was offered when available,
destined for a roadside end, no trophy head of mine.

So many idiotic deer,
smug birds, perverted dogs.

At home there's a cat and 10 kids
who don't know shit and can't help you.

Maybe I stink, look nuts, work too hard to live.
Starvation and rivals everywhere--
all that slinking just to thieve an egg
knowing you'll never be wolf-sized

all balanced by the
you are no deermouse, it could be worse
routine routine routine.

Neither good and bad nor in between seems tenable.

99 times out of 200 I do the right thing.

Before long you’re just moving on inertia
and if you stop who would know?

Wednesday, November 3, 2010

Lines from Club Charles

x. mach 9

Pregnancy. Thunderstorms. Postfinancial coronaries.

The days are ferns unfolding in a crystal-granite sea.

I sit in the city's erotic enormity-- a tsunami of architecture
encounters a tsunami of fog. High mist
plays tricks, swells the buildings
like breasts under gauze,
larger than life,
almost a real town.

From such overestimations
I deduct my dreams and voila,
reality downs,
a fearsome, wounded bird:

slanders and promises in front-page ink,
young ladies ordering birth control loudly,
bad kids on bikes
spit, the word Bitch
rings through midair.
I ignore, I pretend, I resign, idealize.

Where did I go on fantasies and lies?
Full throttle into the oscillation--

to pace the globe on airplane flights
sipping industrial orange juice

a life as wholly without context
as the asteroid kiltering blindly toward its demise--
some trillion dollar purse of nickel and tin
recreating a world where the deaf see
the mute think
the blind move.

Now I'm finding the limitations of the miracle,
the black zone where there is no error
and nothing changes no how.

Right back here on Planet Earth:
slanders and promises
young ladies,
bad kids,
green shade.

Voila, bitch:
A tsunami of architecture
encounters a tsunami of fog.
I ignore I pretend I resign.

I see angels with orchid wings in the sky.