Thin Man Walking Off Losses

Time to time flies.

One of them is not avian.

Uniform implies a home.

Uninformed applicants fist air.

This is us on time to mass.

All of his gathered around him.

Thoughts at best guests there.

Her house without her still breathes.

Knowledge or her glasses split.

Embroidered collars at sunrise.

Shot from the box.

Mad as flames.

Mad as fame in ovaries.

Connected tissue to what?

His family with a uniform code?

Got kayoed in the sixteenth round.

And the trees sing the birds to pieces.

Only one left to call Sir now.

The application gets the okay.

Sleeping birds petrify.

The pane and the seriousness.

Only what it allows is seen.

The band stirs.

The teams all play.

Lawns raise houses in their voids.

Uncle of empty lots.

Time we were the take.

It took a lapse to make us while.

Now we’ve reached out to the lake.

Soon we’ve flown off with plummets.

Who won when the grass attacked?

When the glass blew taps?

Maximums of turning leaves.

The birth was the other boxed.

Mine Own Ohms Resisteth Me

Deaths come to all good things who’ve weight.
In dreams you always have less

chronic sleep disorder issues. But can you be
sure the sugar isn’t slightly less

sweet? That slumber isn’t a trick of the foot
finding a planet to stand on less

the agent’s slice? Chaos as agent of buck teeth
in mags. The comb that has less

to say about the state of the hairdo than the hat
of a gent of meanness? Not less

significant the dais missing its inner windbreak
to protect your devices. Unless

you then arose and a wind agitated around you.
“This thy son, o lord”, worthless

without the word. The word goes amongst men
in the brilliance of the touchless

carwash. This world goes to the Unitarian Bank
of Commensurate Fits, merciless

as Ted Danson towering over a city of flyspecks.
260 days till literarily those less

fortunate read ant paste deposited here to mark
anyone named Mark. Much less

meeting the quotidian inroads of your grand mal.
Skip it? The panda, “Please, more?”

Bounce 8

fracture you are delicious

distortion a rich preserve of limits

Ramada you live in the hearts of Newark

a cutover cumming from a high bluff

cornmeal to beat me soundly round the parts

a foursquare feast supplanted by dirt

built a befuddling jungle as a deterrent

some paunchy combine operator

brisk winds alter the atoll’s crust we eat

velvet flavored yonder rendered threadbare

custodian of the library campfire injuries

chug luxury if adept a legion will assist

drop the gangster admire anchors

favoritism is a familial trait take mandarin

semicolons situate your shade deposit

your pilot lies bucket deep

only the convict got maternal

as a manhole despot and buttery as priests

then the crania go screwball insolvent

this primitivism edge gives blare

Nairobi in a nod a broadside of them

your deserted isle is a snowstorm missing plug

then out comes the kiddie topic to pixilate me

the inks had a brood of inklings

yet still I live on Nottingham in Pain

sirens call my unlisted name a number

when the socialites gag and get scrutable

is this the meat they labeled dutiable scrap?

that border garden just groaned and put out a crypt

in the ensuing analysis no one said homicidal polecat

or saccharine tastes better actually served in the sack

Doctor De Steer wants your confession billings

this may alter the communal tax status

heads you plead tails I’m the goat of the Devil’s Punta

a shacktown talisman vendor burst from oats

can you use me as an opal as someone credulous

as a capstone on this heaven high deletion?

you see a hill a man sees

a turtle turns back you stand and bark

watching these random falsehoods leave uncharted

it takes only nine goats to bring heaven down

and a thermometer you can associate

if any of these rebounds fail I’ll fax

there are lives of wallpaper sung to cabochons

all as bogus as a tiger below your imaginary twig

take the berry I only need a mat and someone

called Bess and the tie I wore to my demise

tampered locks blew all my cousins home

during flightless windup abacus week

Before The Hat Got Terrible

in the purple she
exhorted the troops
this is not yours
not a masochism
it’s an asylum vote
or optic relic or genie

cracked a mullion
into glass homonyms
access denied
these props are condemned
her excretory specs
bristled scrubbers of Dondi’s ghost

Sumter on Avon
dry creek on dewdrop
army crawlspace
a sud retaliates
sculptor of alphabets
coppery gel of no one orb

coalition screed
a momentary
worm extremis
barber content to shave
avaricious heroes
diagnosis the mail is late

a small testicle
now the dewdrop binds
Byrne in his suit
the clarinet praxis
was this the paradox?
to delve back into the wood’s wind?

Not Provisionally Entitled

(for CN)




are you in?
are you holding?
do you see an allegiant
in Sandusky by the smokescreen?
An actuated anterior of animosity
that says insecure to me
to a tenor the opposite
your syllable has become you
the transport ship moon-bound
but the depth of Bridget foundered
will end the era of moon power
your pole position come home
and I am wearisome of the cups
I can enter you now with it parsed
gimcracks bells impediment
Betty Doorward steams me
returned to the pubescent convoy
are you decontrolled?
a rut in the land
a dash a snub
the bony cam that registers
dental counterfeit
or are my golden colors the same
as Herkimer in his isolation
the slimmest chance
a borrowed gate
freed from the home of Eli
Guru of the trances
to be discontinued

(as a condition
a bedhead comfort mental bulb
cashier of the cliff of surgical sex
the brain races nearly exquisitely
so your lubricants amuse)

What Began With Great Promise Ended a Poke Choppe

in here lynx can be had cheap by halves
that’s the sweet stench of a peace officer
we overbought on politburo retreads
a phase we were anticipating never did
via shelves removed of trolls and it is
pop goes these decomposable saggings
gas paths gangways Cathy chatter ugh
a genuine Chippendale rod pocket bed
Ellsworth Cyclops end of gamete fads
infamous infancy in chrome tiled lab
told of a predecessor’s proverb to screw
devolution to pre-electrician in ten days
to whale to chokehold De Valera lives
the drum of the headshot on his neck
wherein the bisections are pre-mortem
a little sting a fishy puppet carpet across
a free fritillary with every adjudication
abortively coughed a man his bulldog
and the angling best in the whole south
of the north like in a real fake western
shot across with the pianola the hamster
banging on Handel to paraphrase a rattle
these penmen their delimitations ethyl
Planetary Dildo live at the Pituitary Pit
until that graphite Troy extractor arrives
pulls out the bed of the pipsissewa healer
they’re free or so in Canada says Samuel
Adam his son a harvestman of myoglobin
lest he shall invoke a villainous puce hue
or be adjudged dumb aleck the stepchild
our conscripts are all planked in ice pads
trained to break the backs of scratch-offs
only a Bach could know what its echo is
likely some salesperson correlates Tango

Then Comes the Master Rakes

your promise:

the commute that ate Muncie

your premise:

the monkey that dreams in code

your product:

predominant faults in the valley

your precedent:

surrounding Bremen with SS puns

your processional:

straightened in the lung itinerary

your practice:

breathe those vulva spoons apart

your performance:

form V's with your rudder toes

your press:

nothing you do isn’t hip, police

your paradox:

need your advice on the Saudis

your paradigm:

you inspire a religion, Interpolism

your preternaturalism:

soon the deed will bear a fruit

your pride:

and the chick hatch a hammer

your purse:

click, almighty as a football

your preview:

darkened like dens of the lobbed

your purview:

marked with hydrophobia staples

your purchase:

of Washington Carving Nutbucket

your pachyderm:

this is your idyllic diode of blue

your plunge:

water bridge the water pure sugar

your population:

Peggy, a fatally cute congestion

your pleasure:

request a spare sledgehammer blond

your planetoid:

the underbed agents of the CPU

your pardon:

may a humble stranger objectify?

your punchout:

or reinforce the national munchies

your plastique:

a seismic blip on the debutante

your pram:

are the disputants present

your pappy:

with their bongs and mavericks

your predestiny:

the bank on the corner pulling g's

your priestesshood:

glom the gloom, bottle it: glam

I Believe In That Man Below

Once in a while a sound travels a greater distance that it thought it could. At that moment of arrival a small new world becomes available. The whole understanding of what can be accomplished on a single impulse revolts. The small new world becomes a work. The work begins, slowly, to grow. Spare change can be felt in its cushions. It learns to count three. Waste removal grows in importance in direct correlation to the size of ideas produced. A prehistoric ancestor of the Mako Shark is found alive and hungry. The work generates ancillary projects like travel to nearby works in progress. The word is given to begin landing sequence operations. Respirating moss, pitted components of metal torture implements and a Theremin are found. The next day a light rain washes the billboards and they gleam in the sun. Soon, with a bit more growth, there will be people to remember these things inaccurately.

Many people live in their memories like those old explorers did. Nowadays there isn’t any time to amble along a lane of strange fences with strange things in the shadows behind them like arms or gardening tools or pruned branches or something unidentifiable but somehow comforting. Oh, and you had a small branch in your hand. Down a ways an old woman told stories of the many lovers she had had and had had to tell to go in the morning after a light breakfast. This whole idea spoke directly to the problems of insufficient production relative to the size of the workforce. Good help was hard to find in those days. Old women now sit and wait for you to walk past on your way home from school. Across the lane a sound has just arrived, panting and nearly dehydrated. The old woman’s eyes grew kind. Then they grew hot and narrowed until she fell from her wheelchair. Silence replaced the old noise. A hard new work has begun.

Last November there was no calendar, no name for any individual, no bellows for the bread ovens and sometimes the people lost the point of the story they were telling themselves while staying at home under the influence reading this book of a former judge’s memoirs. This book told of the exploits of men on farms, men from distant work projects, many old women bound for the chutes and ovens at the backs of the factory compounds. Whoever it was that first heard a sound arriving along the assembly line was given a bonus and shown the door. None of them were ever seen around here again. The right to relate things that you’d read and thought were important was made manifest in the cafeteria. The cafeteria was off limits. Soon they said they would build a new cafeteria. It opened this month but the food is so so. What was the point of talking about that again? No one remembers the night the school collapsed.

Now the days have names. Each man no matter how small is considered a man worth looking away from. Everyone says they were there the day the shots were fired. It’s hard to imagine being a sound and not knowing when you’ll stop, much less what you’ll transform into heavy gauge mesh used to crush the growth of unwanted creepers in the gardening industry. The whole blueprint is available at the library. A library will be built next November, you will be able to read things like crazy. Things like the sequel to that book by the former judge about how he wrote the first book and nearly died when a sound traveled to within inches of his ear before finally stopping and becoming a dandelion. They never rebuilt the school. Sex is a beast only known as a character from another project. No pre-release photos have been circulated. An act of kindness was performed there, it lasted until the feet came in contact with the cracked body.

History tells us nothing. But by next December at the latest, they promise. Before history came the air conditioning and the envy of the ne’er-do-well. Into each doorway a little thing must crawl then up the wall, take notes, out the window and back to local headquarters. It’s the little things that matter most. Like why we need three seas just to be surrounded and left with only one escape route to the north. The collaring is complete, at least we have that going for us. New collars will be issued when they work out the bugs in the live culture decals that still come off in a light rain. Her collar was nailed on and she called it her source of mighty super powers. They cemented her into the chair this time. She swears she hears something new roughly every sixteen seconds, the length of time it takes to achieve orgasm along with a simultaneous bee sting and allergic reaction. A book is coming out on it soon. Probably May of last year.

It doesn’t happen often, but once in a great while a sound reaches beyond its limits and becomes the cries of, presumably, a woman having a series of orgasms. Possibly having a child. On their days off most people read those stories set in the distant lands of mystery, where Chandu the Magician and Roxor battled for the future of something, illusions multiplied “even unto a gathering of twelve times twelve.” A woman having twelve illusions of climax consecutively, with “twelve times twelve” mysterious strangers, then leaving a living city growing in her wake. The travel of sound no longer necessary. Sound can take a well earned day off. Back in those early years no one heard anything they did until it was proven right by someone else in a large protected vehicle. The names came later. There was talk of a newspaper devoted to stories about the life between sound and work.
It was quashed by a hooded stranger.

This is why I believe in that man above.

Could You Buy Me So?

I always rely on the kindness of others’ strangers. You
have all the glands in a pleasing arrangement of grays.


They pay a cover and come to the edge to look down
at what any one of them might rule into decay.


One thing sits like a bomb of blanks, the other is studying
the man with the courage to snow in a blizzard.


We are the place the antimatter levels began
to grow out of control and we giggle violently.


Many fine folks live around about these parts
and some tie down birds to paint them with egg tempera.


I have two hometowns: one like a latter day Thebes
and the one in the Atlas of Santa’s evil accountant.


You can run as many marathons as the shower rains
white enameled straight pins into your unfinished tattoo.


Which only means that who left the sound on too long
should also be the one going blue in a trunk.


This is written for the first mother to put kindling
in her eye as a signal that the grain fields will produce.


Have these pocket editions always been about nothing
but the insides of storage units in disuse?


But for the fairness we could have a formula
that might actually work together with another better formula.


Now I’ve said too much without having
sufficient letters to make the words come unglued and traverse.


His great gift was knowing how to make both
look like they were miserable in perfect congress.


Why did you change your back? Which way
to that new chisel store we’ve heard tell of?


Did you change your chin too? Some kind of whim
about the energy of parts? Did you see it tried in repeated tests?


Here nobody does any work. You just take the next
man and flour him till he’s ready to bake the one before.


Why did god place me near a domed city? What was
going on in his head? It’s almost like a party of ones.


Those over under right left reading skills
that will carry you into the next paid promotional intro.


You can run. Everyone sees. There are yields to
these crops. Ears of good corn and cotton enough to never read.


One might also be different and run. Then again any
other tattoo would be complete then sawn off at the shoulder.


I think this is the moon of sties. I think they bake pies
and cakes as well. Any of those sound good about now.


Any off days are those when you forget to turn
off the water and the entire building drowns.


Any day when you are where you belong. Or set
down your package and forget to want its contents.


The moon is a snake and you live in its eye
making up lines like the mob was unruly till order was restored.


End on your best number. Outlast the landing module. Old
people all go through the same well in the secret garden.


I had a year once that featured no connected times
but I find the nights different here.


You stand inside an important historical crossroads
and think of a cross. She coils to strike. She sleeps.

5 2 i D Sure But What Are The W And J For

At the first sign of a floor
abort all thoughts of landing
instead bake a chocolate layer command center
forty four feet of collected fear rescued from a six foot protective vial

She swept through a room
nothing like it ever on her mind
never dreamt of any other form of companionship
the guess she hazarded was raised blind on a catfish farm in the south

”A cure!” said the director
do an alternate Edison for us
the tall muscular footmen caught in the spokes
”take him out of the lineup and throw the other potential culprits away.”

Techniques used in japanning
the first application was in 1993
japanning can cover all manner of blemishes
if it be your wish I will weep here after the horses have taken Suzanne

5 time we have talked at length
2 chapters got left out at the printer
if not tonality then what do you aspire to?
dysfunction raised to the level of art a popular TV host in the 2050’s

This time we’re waiving the cover
and sounding the other kind of charge
that cushioned floor and a lifetime watered
with the water of the juice of the nectar of the fruit of the sky’s tree