Diary
1.
Gotaro did not move with-
out, he talked over
duck silence, a rental
sulk. The stove could
hurt but Gotaro was blurting
faith in an
algae he made with his
breathing. Here was the
valve, it poured forth a veil.
No one confused
ruination with sails so
Gotaro lit into the limb
of a window. Off in the city
a building breathed
2.
The lodestar cracked and
continued, it purchased
a juice. Herbs grew here
and here as if radio-
active. Gotaro’s love moved
with her sleeping and
dreamed of a lobster
replacing her “fever.”
Gotaro dreamed a dark
whirl underwater as if
drains emanated no faith
in the lunar; by her extension
his aunt had
gone dog. Truth
boxed in, bounced and
filled the spring
3.
It did not enjoy. Blood
flowed as if Florida. Gotaro
had only been once when he
smoked rock in a plastic
castle and perhaps for
the first time invented size.
It relayed into the
red of intention. He still
at this point had never heard
knives. Secreting one’s
voice is not a topical action.
He watched someone’s
tiara hum like a lion,
her teeth way beyond epistem-
ological. Vegetables flecked
the coast and Gotaro continued
its contract
4.
Gotaro would be surprised
by the weeping, but then
it was weeping that
invented him. He who
moves with a hazard
attached rests his eyelids
in concrete fog. Did the
neighborhood awaken
like a puppy’s face with every
intention Gotaro replaced?
I am not at liberty not
to say yes, but Gotaro’s
xylem is a fountain of no,
and when the grass seems least
tactful of objects he points to an iris,
bends down and picks it
5.
Gotaro, committed to an
asylum of song, had great
faith in arrows. Nothing
else understood his
corrections. A funeral is
a fuse box in this book’s
basement. No one could
leaf through the sun
and not feel welcome with
the punks underground,
but this is the nature of
reading without full know-
ledge of lockets. Gotaro’s
contains his father’s face. He
wears it around his neck
and all day, and sounds flow
through the loop
6.
A piano equals necrosis,
you can never bring it
anywhere in space but down. The
wind whistles through its
organs, hums. Gotaro is
composing a piece that
hates his hate, chastens
him sharper than sails
slit a harbor. He once
took a harpoon between
his teeth and dove under
the houseboats to see what
was living under his
instrument. He found a great
deal with his hands, and
it was soft and speaking
7.
Forward what, nimble ligament?
No one knows what you’re not
saying, this is the seventh
hour of iteration and
no one’s yet busted out
diamonds or praying.
My movements dark and
plenty. The clock strikes,
time for Gotaro to
position his skin in relation
to his friends the stones
and rabbits—their narrows
pulsing out like boomerangs
on the poor, informed—
but Gotaro can always
make other friends. He
bends in the direction
8.
Gotaro is a kind of second-
century friend, riveted
less by the electronics than the
electronics. Steep censure,
was the surface an intro-
duction to day’s satellite?
I marked an orbit as it
vacated my pockets, little
ruses someone else
delights in when the
point from a to b
proves discursive as a
bolt. Gotaro plays from
here to there, his fur
pricked on the back of something
else’s neck. It moved,
I found it moving
9.
The cacti crumbles between
our tongues, fleet blood
about to get extremely observed.
He shades his eyes and
takes a slug of mirage,
it conceptually cools
him. Perhaps he was
wrong to think a body
could reach him. All he
ever wanted was to
sail across land as if
belief were cut from
each pore as a choice. What
he didn’t realize was
faith isn’t a spigot, it’s a noise
10.
Thus I am inwardly my police.
I know not where a fly
goes in its pride. Dream in
which a medium friend
drives past me waving in a
roundabout cracks open, not even
enough to jam one’s foot into
the other room. Gotaro’s is always
in the door, indeed his
feet are not so much
inside them as around.
He walks on his own
two surfaces and
directs traffic in his sleep,
screaming 美は真実,
真実の美しさです at SUVs
11.
Gotaro would rather chill
his face against the frozen
concrete for the rest of
the afternoon than go back
to work but he realizes
too that frost is its own labor,
and unlike the one Gotaro
does for a living this
one’s adhesive
crystal licking the outer
edges of his frame. The
whistle blows, black notes
pour forth. Gotaro peels
himself off the ground
in gradations. He will remember
each as a color on
the flip side of a cut
12.
Someone’s knocking on his
skin like it’s an institution.
Draft trickling through his
passageways to meet white
cells. I await your imitation.
Blasted on neon spleen,
felt the opulence implied
in patching up my finest shirt
sewn to another emper-
or. In this sense the needle
frees a present tense
of both legs, lion
gnaws on one like bubble gum
and punctures day’s doorknob.
The brass bleeds
In the Middle of the Day
1.
That’s north the rain raineth
In my wall
I install fixtures am a great sail
Whatever was soaked in my door’s lead gild remained
Bathed in fumes at the time
The clock bloomed in the fuse
I can feel it swallow
At the time I sang an attic to itself its rafters issued forth a roof
As foxes exit a headlit road by none it was imperial
No one can fuck a glass of water except obviously Blake
I am able to speak to him in the length of mirror
Hosts address me during lulls in talk only for the sake of others
At that the room plummets
Can your actions grow vines
Enough to catch a little hook of solar complication
You will come around
May I be you and we in sorrow
I cannot speak for it but dream a number of bright red arrows
Three levels emerged in the wood of my hand one the color of a sphere
The other two were jewels with shields
Black essentially depending on the day
Creating one’s man is to form his image
In this state he will serve as emblem for the spirit with which he corresponds
Every word that leaves me comes from the mouth of God
My heart remains in the movies
One stands to greet them in the dark
My friends once left their window cracked for months while heat leaked up
This flash is what it’s like to lie crying to the movies
This time I’m not going to use them as stilts
No one begins to imagine throats
These are no figment I dare you to sing with them
The signal is greatest close to the shore
By these lakes some people with money named after their departed children
They are absolutely human
I keep arriving at that word
In this place where giving and taking feel precisely the same
Blake was frequently inside
Making the sound of a piano making love to television
I remain optimistic for palms and plumes mounted on the edge of space
But butterflies peel into the square with them and without
Deer are coughing green through the hollow
Glad they’re a gland
Is the dotted line that runs between them optical or magnet
I was glad when your letter came
And more so when it opened
It’s personal if it crawls on everyone’s skin
The feeling should be preserved like a monument and in many cases is
I am without question very much in love
In that case home is at the mouth
A transparent cave of arrows
The storm flat and electric
A number are good with its kingdom
For peace I mean we could cut them there and leave them only with horses
Their characters reversible with song
They absolutely are
All people seem good until you hear them work
2.
The power passes between sentry and the gate she keeps
No one should fuck with that arrangement
As a mirror in a hallway holds whatever visage passes through its limbs
In the sunburn hours
Spines aloft in gravity dictate the position
Of a dragnet
Its spectacles walls
Before their eyes so hearts stay indoor voices
Streaming down the panes
Redder than an exit
So would you sue me for feeling terror a poorly stitched disguise
Christ is in the pyramids tonight
Smellin’ like a window
And pockets a crystal coin within those sides
But we know where it hides and the fountain it ought to be thrown into
Something in the middle distance sweats
No one will touch me as it comes forward
No one subjects the mirror to hurt it doesn’t deserve
Mostly it poses questions
Too didactic for a library it wonders how to feel
Is it the skeleton of Westminster Abbey
Raw nerve cell in the spine of the dead who have
Passed into its mouth
There are a number of eruptions
But never a shortage of homes
Someone deserves to kiss your sentences
A book of common prayer collecting bird heads for its fur
Everything beyond the skull is the last frontier
So the mirror is an open book
After all
And you are its doctor
It is the starlight with you
Through wind and rain it is contagion
We only own faces after all
Dulcet stage
And if wings are physical we’ll only owe these time
The muscle is no informant but full of lace and information
Sometimes all in one
Autumn slips into shrapnel
A face appears to show the costume its negative
Little streams ran down to my arms
I felt the machines of my lips and eyes were one with tightnesses in chests
I threw a stone it landed
Honey in the decibels
I am stamped with your kiss
And you held the water glass with a little extra violence
So it might never bear against the table
And feel gravity’s mark in weeping
The lady cannot bear to hear us speak
But I know she will come morning
Aims sharpened
She shifts into flesh so song can be preserved
Data written in her favor a spider runs along
Her wrist
And arrests you in her account
Under lamplight washed in your sound
Papyrus Fail
The body inflates a small revolt
As it rests for its return.
Sound carries well in damp weather, as do ferns through skin,
And “a tree is a print-out of its history with space”
Provided for mutation
Which the poet tells us flowers and people
Are almost never favorable to the organism
At hand. I wonder if swans count.
To bear the stain of involvement
Relentlessly as a jigsaw puzzle; I don’t want
You to see me see you be fire.
All of my actions are toys at the podium, even
When sailors strike. A spade queen,
That’s a good example of what it feels
Like to die inside those numbers. One slits
The end of autumn open and what does she find?
One, and that has some bearing on us meeting here
Tonight when the alphabet’s twilight bangs
On a classical procedure towards weeping.
Let me demonstrate by reading
A few scenes out of my face: metal and Elizabeth have many
Children, but metal meets a man
Inside years. How could this happen?
Well for one, what got into it was sleep,
Blocks of, shocks blown
Out of the belt moving seconds
Through the factory exploding hours into others.
Thriftless units,
Let them remain for the tête-à-tête.
For another, I’m filing them to a sharp point as we speak
But the inspection is already over. It concludes there is a hole,
Income leaking patients, and the flow’s
Not cold if you spread them into your hands and rub friction
Until it loves you in return. This is an irresponsible poem
Because I think I can reasonably assume
Even filled with a fluid
You would not activate it under the present dome.
One cannot simply call
A ghost on the telephone. Lead poet, what was it
You had meant to plagiarize off breath
When you opened the furnace
And slipped this little letter inside? Who else would have read?
The police are increasingly after my friends, but
What about the nouns departing? Where’s one to plant
These lost puppets? I fall
Asleep each night with little faith you want to reveal,
And that particular ember of lack
Does not contain enough fuel to heat even this small room.
Nothing goads its borders, so what good could red do now
Unless suffused with what I hope and imagine
Might be your tactile alarm?
It’s not often you get to really feel dominions clapping
But what you feel right now
Is the back of your own neck, not mine,
And at least this month both of us are living therein.
While we’re here, do you think you could lend
Me the brisk hammer that an heirloom
Is?
Now nails, now gentle force, now photos hung
On walls. In the future
Thought will be extracted from our eyes like a roll of film, negative
Spilling its shrill sequence
In braids to ape the state’s
Novel way of chastising any speech remaining
By repeating it in the exact same voice
And then dubbing it over a video of a mouse cleaning its ears with real pathos
But cartoon eyes, a plausible direction
For where we might go next in imagining the soul
Via the arms. It’s not punishment, just
How maps drink a system. Remember how you once
Kissed a map
And it was cool and bottomless? I sometimes forget men and women
Even have legs but something
Operatic out there
Reminds. It enters
When I’m not that far in the grieving
Largely because each cube of air
Ends with a cube of its larger organization; try
As you might we do not have the vocabulary to glow the way
Away from me, but I hope you believe me
When I say I mean harm. Truth’s threat
Is several friends raking laughter up
To store it in black plastic bags, burning it with poison ivy,
Then picking up the phone only to breathe all
Over the dial tone. So many calls
I keep forgetting to insert letters (in the traditional sense of the word)
Like lava, a son in the flickering sea,
Forgets to knock on the water’s surface
Before it says hello to a temperature. Something smells fishy
Here but only to the eye. I know you less
In collaboration, like a mower
Blocking day as fast as day trembles
By any other name. Inside
A disastrous future awaits
Though beautiful in its process. Of courage
All I know to say is
Night is longer than the heart
In certain of its variations, namely
The one beaming between our faces.
Of course water is an emotional experience, you wouldn’t
Want to run through it protected.
I’ve known those people
And they were all landscapes
Versus your shape, they have a kind of session in woods
As a smattering of aspens
Shares a single root system, the mountains in a view
Revolve around one blazing core so hilarious with goo
That to call it metallic is like I mean excuse me?
No one wants to eat
Off of that thing with a collection of glands
To make holy each day. The river says “huh,” and I have to disagree,
If not with the inflection
Then the implicit question’s size
Looming in its frog-flecked filigree. Last night passed,
The water now green. My first breath this morning an analog
For the eye’s
Entanglement with transparency—so the river’s not
Shrugging, it’s beginning to say “Hamlet,”
Muffled in the opening rain. There’s danger in inflection.
Father of emblems
Lead me to some stuff by the river
If you flash on the surface in several shades, if you are
Or live in its surface and small waves.
Five years ago I drove along the other bank
And thought about “orchard” versus “vineyard,”
Now I am older, don’t think in words,
And it still gallops
Down the banks like fuck. The poet also
Gives off speed, rate at which we become
Nurses for each. I stand there in the waiting
And finally glide to the fridge
Which is here for a visit and itself
Bright as a hospital. Must be all the fumigants.
The power reminds that plants are not kingmakers,
A politics ought not be wielded
For aesthetic sheen alone,
Fastening flowers to a gun of infinite referents. It’s dark in there,
I find my cell while rooting inside, open it and say
Come home, but the receiver is already there.
This is another reason for teeth,
The forehead
Can only chew through so many surge protectors.
Someday I’ll proceed
With that action with evidence. I need
To share something at you, and it’s what
You do with them: people get Europe pulled
Out of their fingernails, enter a diamond,
And what do we find? I find Elizabeth
And she is saying. They
Find a centipede eating a reader. You find an opinion
Pulsing with silence there where light throws hate at a rainbow
But the question remains
Did it heal you with sound?
‘Cause solitude is green and unavailing
And speech is a station through which round weeds blow.
Even I am approaching your throat.