Gaarbo Sensed in a Lead Vessel

the printed work is a statement, we’re leaving for the country.

the printed work is staring at you, we’re leaving you for the country.

the printed work staring at the yellow wall, left in a country of stations.


princess of the static moment.

her entombment, reminiscent of the freezing cloak, skirt afire, armor placard.


the wolf and the coyote might work together to confuse you.

the world and the coin might devour each other and split the profit.

the wolf might use the coin to alter his features, the coyote suspects.

a world of nothing but existence is a lousy nightclub concept.

the internet has changed the wolf forever.


the incessant howling of the moon at something in costume.


the printed work is a fated task, fated never to be printed.

work is its own declining orbit, being made as an offering to a toolbox.

the agonized mothers looking up at their children arriving with arms and allergies.


the word is printed upon the life.

the brilliancy of the city demands a replacement world.

the wolf is a doorway into a showroom of bargain wolves.

All On a Broach

The pig has its own symbolic right to display a grammar.
That was his argument, a pinch on the ass, common sex replicas.
The critters that cooked up a speech then couldn’t deliver the goods.
In every argument down here someone comes away a socket lighter.
Glue down more kids, the wings are out of balance.

There's no point in my considering this sentence, no fragment in a green
enameled bomb purse. I have a question of great unimportance, my life
is living in a rented room in Astoria. At last, the idea of marriage.
A Texaco horse from the enemy, circa one million CG.
Your argument for extinction; flashy, cruel, succinct. Hands?

The move to the new headquarters was wise. That winged thing
would have found a way in. And there goes your ballgame.
And there it goes again. Busy, ballgames, aren’t they?
Why is the one headed this way packing an RPG?
I will attempt to engage it in casual banter. “Excuse me, Red…!”

And there is where the story chose to end.

He has been a bullet with similar characteristics.
Speaking of the cavalry charging up Calvary, kindly escort these ladies
to the clinic until the lovelier ones arrive.
We have some elbow grease to spend.
And that’s how the whole darn love thing got started!
There along the mighty, muddy love barrel, barely of age yet
consumptive and raped with promise.
The song goes just like this.

I am a delicious dying crustacean.
I can fly into walls at ground level.
It takes a crew this big to clean the world or double your cancer back.
Think he could tell that he wouldn’t see Cuba again?
To hear him tell it there is no magical bull.
And still he insists on mowing from the underside.
Says things are never the same as you make them.

In this light, the magic hour I’ve mentioned in my epitaph, you can see
but only for flashes, and only into the nearer of the futures.
A full sized, conscious doll with great legs.
New paint for the Statue of Literally.
Baseball with guns.

Tell that fucker, Wiggins, if he don’t stop making that clacking
all goddamn night he gonna get his punk ass kicked good.

Unless Rueluas L’Aventure shows up with the pigs, look for me
on the center cross. It’s my beast to be, now, he fell off and left.
I think he went thisaway, looking for something. A hat, maybe.

I awoke in a room in front of a picture window.
The window was this screen.
I forgot to tell you I’m writing this on this screen.
Are you reading it on anything?
The light of the forest when insomnia reigns?
The dark when everything closes its eyes?

The story appeared to have finished some time ago.

The day, however, looked full of promise.

Brought Up In a Curse the Glass Goes White To

whatever doesn’t make you stronger kills your desire for change from strangers.
which is the way to arrive at your destination without having to leave the tub?
you will keep longer if you don’t age, or age in the presence of ice sculpture.
images of cats in desperate peril work best.

land is also improved by age. some said the real picture was of her hand.
arrangements of disparate bodies that others with empty sheds might buy.
the word chalcedony is painted over each numeral of my watch.
a lover remaining at the window as the police arrive.

it seems unfair to charge twice as much when you only give half the volume.
but then, three prices for everything. the parrot is watching M.
a hand set free will do everything it can to return home with bacon.
he can, for you, be, perhaps, not much, too late, we’re closed.

a penny for your pretty good guess. less for the common plinth.
he seemed perfect until he spoke.
he appeared to accept us on our own imagined terms.
the animals, though, were very nervous.

They All Love My Baby

On those crutches you’re about a beauty.
About a circle, in a circle of crucifixes.

Gazes flexing at joints, at books of skin, sampling.
Abnormalities and deformities, a sylph smiles

from the Reichstag’s elaborate iron balcony.
The procedure wasn’t expected to be so lengthy.

An endless twilight crossing, wet joints, skin,
arthritic, huddled, cards in a heaving sampan.

She smiled is all that made the montage.
They thought they ought to have killed her then.

Might’ve done so, but the weapons were too soft.
And the fact that she had no money.

Some information was spilled, tour guides
know the spots, or bend them to vendors’ benefits.

Money, after all, has changed its perspective.
Forget that we had a kingdom, this man is not the king.

Several of the nobles still visit her body.
The caretaker’s buy-off varies by their horses.

Her crutch moves more freely now, forms
more inventive, elaborate shapes.

Like the outline of a drowning faun,
or the smiles of fever victims.

Cave if the Painting Suggests It

The great bank of fog on the wall
Turrets were where we first did it
Watching the cars directly below
And you buckled until the sun

Sgt. Presto was known worldwide
At the Paris Exhibition he danced
For the upper striations of geese
What’s good is not for you to speak to

Go sing to the nightingale on your thigh
Shall I drop the needle? We're shorthanded
Keep opening to the flinch lock, star spurts
And I will steal you away in cork raiment

It’s the same thickness you remember
Sparks still surround its reluctant launch
Swell of the straw, the gentlest wreck
When you recorded your mouth in context

A shell in the archive, annals of petal discourse
the hall, was it ever this narrow, as dark?
I think of the time she looked along the length
and found her way lit into the bluer passage.

The Footprints Against Your Plaster

Aline fell against the door jamb wistfully.
No. Dreamily. “You shall bend my name
Against this until it vanishes with me.”

The Sycamore fell so sweetly, so confidently.
Disease had not dulled its annoying beauty.
From the roof of your house you can see
The places neighbors hide their drug money.

This land ate Woody, and it will eat you.
Whose slave was it that said, “I’m pregnant
Master, what shall I put on the headstone?”

I see the same people at the Laundromat.
I must remember to ask them about their welfare.
There are things we all have in common, fear.
The new record by that French Canadian.

Once the question has been drafted, the ambulance
Channeled away with its bomb, time for a pick-me-up.
We will pose the question and strangle in decorative crepe.

You’ve known me for as long as it takes to drive
to the burger joint. I will be waiting for time to rethink
its take on this space I use for spare skins, replacement chins.

Is there an us I missed in the shuffle? The mad dash to close
Before closing time? Time for one more short set, one more round.
This one is dedicated to all the brave soldiers defending our way
Of life in the wine cellar. It’s called “Unreachable by Sonance”

My son is a germ in a pocket math capsule. He merges,
Fabricates shapes, makes shoes for the poor, eats gluons.
A son is a wonderful thing for a man to emulate. Compact.

I find that lately I am able to reverse my epidermal order.
And often the effect is striking. I hope for my children’s sake
That I die with the secret intact. There is little more
comical than a sudden deathbed objection.

The sun seemed sudden at first, remember?
I saw it from a small hill bent against my only word.
But she happened to be the girl the grass demanded.

You Have No New Messages and They Are All Marked Urgent

After the Pentecostal basement riots

a certain asthmatic might find himself

Who has the power he asks in this red vault hole

to hold fast an unnatural parchment climax?

Might just wash a rope for the kick, the trapdoor

just as well a host piano ridden of its peckers

Protonutcase protected by a corps of generals

singing their favorite shellacs, pantsing the cadets

I will you into a plexiglass castanet, headache hour

the regenerative power is abstruse, obtuse, connubial

Roots of the world, retire to your balloon shorts

On pain of deathless preciousness, side realities

held in external escrow at the edge of a strawberry

Injury, my fellow, my compadre, may you never be

farther than Pluto when I dream of beatings shared

Pluto the reductive dogstar, the thing the emperor

(or was it the furniture king?) swapped his clothes for

Hirohito might have said it better, had this been a movie

of Bogart’s rattle

But I am he of your most ferocious tenting

snapshot, your whipsnake, the wagon latch that dropped

a door on your holy uptake, your penetration west

Cardinal Rivulet spat at the cancer swallows

And that’s how a tinstar melody is born

Or a tarbrush given to the feathered creatures

Expectation is a horrible thing to remove from its dome

That which he most feared was smoke damage to his clothes

He carried destruction in a billfold of human pelts

When they fucked I sang and walls of paper expanded

I shall today send to the bell for confirmation, that car

And how her nipple was worshipped by the hobbits

Where the feet of The Somme still patrol sharpened logs, taunting

And Cambodian keychains present you at Oedipal court

Yudhisthira has left the building, before it was built, burning cold

and left us alone, the countess, my Psyche, myself and la maid

Countless? Turn that hand over to me, we’ll roll it back to ‘73

With the dexterity of a body, a radical free foundling

lost in a muffler slide

Mermaid Sallies

1.

"God bells to you, Al."
He had barely said it
when The Wonder! occurred.

So much sympathy and anger in Saint
Louis. And a tone of mind
control in every comedy.

At least it’s over for the night.
A pin prick during the act.
Is it over for the night?

2.

he made his living collecting the huge
the first was a monolith butterfly
rarer than a tree
larger than a stack of Pontiac retirees

second was a train constructed by ants
of the main roads none are open
for the tales to be true a hat is required
they tell of him and the roundness of his arms.

3.

He remembered, too, how sweltering
it had been in the bedroom during
the secret.
Had smelled the weakness and her
support and the very specific threat
that made him come
for supper. Be eyeful, she lip-synced.
Laid on the wedding-clothes, waiting.
He jotted something
in a pocket dictionary. Pushed back
his feet from the stone enclosure.
The lights cancelled.

4.

"And so you know pain now, my fridge?"

Her face was stapled
and filed to a whisker.

Celinka et Giustino

hav youe rascales tyed hys ympermanence toe yone soure oraynge treye?
ae cartelle ownes thee ryghtes toe thee pureye settyng one youre blendere
ande collectse everye tyme youe mayke ae smoothye. hye ysn’t halfe ase goode
ate sermonyzyng one comedye typped barbes. Buttere ande egges
ande Frenche jokese ande finallye juste shute upe. thanke youe
fore thee use ofe thee trye-cornere hate ande cooeyng ine mye eare.

ande coconute. ande compleyte unexpurgatede calendarse
ofe ympossyblye syllye essentyale shyt. ae showe ofe cosynes
undere thee needyle hedge juste looke lyke ae lotte ofe absurde
numberes. ydyote veneratyones ofe thee bryttle, thee olde.

youre eyese hade eyese onyce, ande cupes enoughe toe appeayse
theme. nowe youe ayre lyttele moyre thane ae cayse ofe thee clappynge.
thee sune shunes youe. ande whene alle yse sayde, Ye ame noe longere
ae lottoe tyckete, ae mane ofe smalle ygnorable actse. Ye ame beycome coyne.
Ye haven'te thee tyme toe complete thyse ryme fore youre blynde schoole.

It’s all so very eighties. Rigged and netted before the books see print.
Played out in France where they don’t care where it comes from so long as it eats
like cheese. But the sovereignty of the puddle is unsullied.

Find a looking glass, look for the parasite, define the lines between ovaries and jackals.
This story is your own. Take it to the beach and show it the sun expanding.
Show it the tide confused by daylight savings.
Give a quarter to someone who doesn’t look needy.
Jump up into low orbit and hold your breath until help arrives.
Find this note and describe the bottle to the police sketch artist.

thyse ys thee houre ofe youre awakenynge, thene youe peryshe beyfore havynge solde thee secrete. Ye shalle halve ae goode laughe ate youre expense, thanke youe.
“yte yse thee felycytye toe shute upe whene one fyre, thee patyence toe wayte fore youre turne toe speake thate wylle ultymatelye showere prayse ande fonde poete morteme vytryole upone youe."

hyse coate wase ae longe blacke webe ofe vowelse. rentede acrosse thee streete frome thee strype clube oute ofe thee backe ofe ae layte modele vane. hys necke revealede the scares ofe ae faylede judgmente. thee clothe ofe thee shyrte collare hade beene torne ase yfe bye laughtere. ande thee rufflese ayte hyse throate.

LOVVE LOVE LOVE LOVE LOVE

By the feasibility of a zone.

The day laborers built a whistle.

When a whistle blew they died.

One can easily get hooked up.

How hung up in a zoning loop

you are depends on how splendidly

bejeweled at the waist. This garment

left the thought of food in bed

in a hidden pocket of the hollowed

skull. A chocolate bug.

Miu Nicewander left her scent.

I was reminded of the time spilling

from the wound. A midriff blown

into separate dream partitions.

I was getting nerves. I called

my cell and asked if anyone could

calm me down with a song. One tone

per customer it said I would believe.

Into the cell she came to tell me,

“You misspelled my name. I like it

better. I’m sorry they’re hanging

you on football Sunday.” I said,

”What, according to your measure

is an appropriate length of earring

for a straight man?” A new zone

opened and swallowed all my merit.

The guard of flattened at the outer rim

asexuals escorted me to the mouth.

My robes burned away by rising air, no

sensation of heat preceded the fluid rock.

The car he acquires will tell us

who has the coordinates to the final

seasonable egg.

I sing of thee in the four on the floor

signature that makes a dying tango

of the world of process.

Your principal attributes float.

Only you know when, the what

always comes when she whistles.

And what difference does where

make when you have no idea

how this paper reached its appointed

corner of the blizzard. A sinker,

an order of slave purpose, and, oh,

a cup of who, Job.