To bold the underword or underword bold wordings. Or just so. Or feasting fast unto death.
Friday, September 29, 2006
The porch with (usual) bushes. Makes a white then monarch butterfly through power lines. This street, street before, now covered in marks where repair makes cars functional. Victor street sounds so much like victory: ha, you street.
The catalogue of good poets gets pissed around like after a few beers. My Pope, my Homer.
And hope is secret for just getting a word in on how it ______ be. Name that secret the squirrel fleeing the only oak tree for all the street. St not quite an acronym but a place holder. The bushes facsimile dreadfully a smell.
Not days or hours anymore, but a month of this. Cut the morning and paste it above the evening and a day makes for reading those famous poets (not only for tests but also for pleasure). And the word poet and famous makes a lot of sense. They see trees, too. All the folks walking under them. Not that something useful can’t be made: paper!
Can city be city when infected by city proper so intravenously? The sudden butterfly moans a “make it concrete and you can.” And so. So, X all the abstracts and the butterfly is there again. Moaning again. Complaining again about its flight patterns and how these are not the flight patterns it thought they would be while in the cocoon. And that moaning.
A note taped on top of my note to myself: get drunk tonight and watch something on television. I’m beginning to analyze and understand this. I tape it to the hidden part of the original note in code: do not expire entirely. Make use.
Wednesday, September 27, 2006
Thank is: thanks. Or, as all. If a window is windfull, then well, wind would so: thanks.
To flesh bags with proper nouns: thanks.
To newer and older bags leaving the flesh (via beauty): thanks.
To kicks, those that give, nurture, and take: thanks.
Martini: thank you for thanks.
Thanks for: thanks.
If (hugs) the milk so often honeyed with, hell, thanks to that too.
Thanks composition students full of complete sentences.
Thank the glass.
Think tanks of basketballs floating: thanks art, a lot.
Never a drop unnoticed and a bottle of cigarette butts: what?
Dead (all) but alive (yet) and remembered (memory) so none die (or still) say: thanks, laugh.
Thanks, stomach, for remembering.
Thanks, sun, for burnt out dirt (if could).
Long long thanks for being: long time till.
Sit. The day, the shading of day (sun or moon, dependable), is, suddenly, my day.
The crick and cranks and meanderings and slips and turnarounds become, suddenly internal and sitting here it’s: my neighborhood suddenly, though, with a “?” inserted somewhere near where the mouth (deceptive tunnel, beast hidden before getting in—or out—of the belly) and neck meet (volcanic apparatus) that wants: punctuate that incorporation with a little doubt, would ya?
Mysterious hum-drum, what a disappointment: the porch’s flaked paint is just a place to walk over; the idiot-angle stance of the slim three stories all down and down the slopped street, eh, in passing.
The grass got mown. The heat doesn’t work.
If a place spreads so thin as to be cultureless, how thin can one be to slip in? Oh, and the slipping.
Tuesday, September 26, 2006
Having a good time.
Set: an open mouth.
Set: froze in a symp(athy)hony of green lights hung over pool tables. The action of brick sustains the open mouth, the amber taken in it, the phon(y)ic spit out.
It shalt be called Milton’s and it shalt sustain illiterate graffiti.
Hot dogs by the cigarette machine and a great confusion of pegs for orifices and catsup, oddly, the color of (some) fire.
Set: Hello. Hello.
Home along the hung tree street.
Thursday, September 21, 2006
If internally the time it takes to respond to a given obstacle, say, a person, say, a mound of grass (the kind of grass that reminds of grass that should not only be mound, but a sort of pinnacle of all mounds and grass) speaks to the space that obstacle inhabits, it should be considered.
Take a speak: here it is.
Then overflowing (wine-like) utterances of a past that cannot be revealed. Then the
No matter the space to be back in the comfort of: here are my things, here are my thoughts, here are the thoughtful thoughts I give these things. Then the creep of strangers enters the insidious space of (thought).
Then, again, class and the bar. A bar full of bards. Bards (lovingly) absent from bar. Barred for
Sitting in so many instances.
Wednesday, September 20, 2006
Life moves aerially time and space: how much for each. But, as a new resident of Cincinnati, the aerial is useless. Roads merge, disappear, reappear, go this and that and under and over and etc.
So, the periplus norm. As a house, as positioning from the bedroom to the bathroom in the middle of the night, the body working to track the walls and possible glasses of water on the floor.
Neighborhood navigation. On garbage days everyone puts their piles on the sidewalk. On every other day, garbage accumulates on the sidewalk, in yards, in the street, seems to penetrate the air. Then it rains. Then the flies. Then.
The emotional navigation of strangers most difficult because of the strangeness. Some cities: hello. Some: nothing. Here: a metaphysical question of which, which time, at what space.
A city penetrates and remodel one’s internal space.
Reflection in the stranger: hello, garbage, compact warm breathing thing.
Here the periplus breaks down. Signs fool, appear at the last minute, don’t exist. To get somewhere takes reconnaissance. The person fragments into a surprise. The plot and general narrative of the everyday epic becomes a matter of fragmenting enough to get around.
And the purpose of being. How. To subdue navigation for the many aspects of getting to class (to teach, to learn). Within safe roads of paths to teach to learn, the ever navigation of: fraud. To try and not fraud. To unfraud the stranger.