…the pouring technique and the snow.

The globule of desire and the snow.


Peru, Peru and first-world guilt.

The laborer 


and the laborer.

Coffee, consumption,


And the snow. The list form

And the history of snow.


Snow that does not change

And the snow that does. The report


The language and the gesture.

The loss of power and the snow


And a resort in Mexico.

The news and the snow.


The poet: journalist of the snow.

The avant-garde: the front of snow


Advancing. Icicles 

In the hands of children. ISIS 


And the snow. Japan

Jordan and the snow. The knife


And the snow and the terrorist John.

The London accent and the snow.


The wind, the snow, the Arabica,

The puppy bowl. Paternity


And the snow.


It is the accent. The wave,


The reader and the snow, the the

And the snow. Striae 


In the faces in the snow.

 The archeology


Now the other way the drift.

The accent on the snow.




Ghosts and Indices


I had been eating apples,

Reading poems before falling asleep,

Turning all the things with faces toward the walls,

Going through the motions of closure.

I kept reading poems by women about unnamed birds

Thrashing inside various bodies and poems by men

About being fish. These said they

Were notes to the future. Then the dead birds

And the dead fish were in another

Poem, a vast, abstract poem, shaped like a cube.

That poem was about ghosts and indices.

Its edges were rounded from so much touching.

But it appeared so touched as a monument

To touching. It was made for neglect.

It was like a city or a reliquary, a piece of bone

With a hole in it tuned to two notes

Or a ring from the nostril of a beast of burden.

Trying to read it was like being in a gender neutral bathroom

Hastily converted into an interrogation cell.

Or being buried in a leftover wedge of cemetery next to a palisade.

Or being alone after reading a destroyed sonnet

With golden hair trailing through fingers.

Everywhere I turned I sensed it breathing. 

But it was, predictably, the absence I sensed.

And then I slept like a pill in a pillbox.

And then I slept like a flying fish.

And then I slept like grains of sand in the mouth.

And then I slept like an angry people.






There is a long thin mist over the billboards tonight.

I am reading a crystalline poetry.

I am looking at the brainy clouds

Over the tall necks of the lamps over the highway.


Over the earth over the crust the molten core

Shifting bordering the siltless space.



She had said.


*                                 *                               *


Ingots, not errors.

Only in bodies he was saying, only in bodies on fire.

Wanting coldness, madness, a taking on of form.


In and out of the aprons of light:

The long thin mist and the hard words, the words

Dragging the real along with them. 

Common glister of quartz glittering


Like a thing stuck in the treads. 

Tarry, tarry.


*                                 *                               *


We float down the road in our giant media.


Exit only, exit only, exit fleeing, exit only…


We pass the great tractor trailers lining the side of the road

Dreaming their useless sexual knowledge.


               Shiny, perverse, their power goes everywhere!


Tied to the fat mast of fantasy we “roll down the road.”


Big autocorrections under the night’s strange partial cover.


*                                 *                               *


On my way to the bus I stopped to watch a woman in the street. Bent over a cart, she lurched and shuffled. She hardly moved. But she moved. We moved around her. Tight, dark braids of hair loped over her shoulders. I wanted to write a poem for the person who made these braids. This person I cannot imagine. This poem I wanted to write insinuates itself into the space between the doing and undoing of the braids. Then it will return, or perhaps it won’t, to the person who emerges. But for now it is not the poem I had wanted to write. It is a poem for the hair falling, for the question of desire braided into hair. 


Will it fall like an aftermath? Will it fall like the last golden verses of a sonnet by Longfellow? 


Or this mist…?


*                                 *                               *


Then we arrive at the station, the shore, the shoal. The political

Terrible night swims away into the night

Of plastic gyres out there, unsymbolic, widening, forgiveless. Unseen distances 


And flashes—


Coins, again, in some girl’s hair? 


Rig lights. 


The embers, the beautiful errors, of the appearance of 

Dissolution, quiet form of accumulation.




I’m still throbbing from the instruction.  The trashing of Basquiat-like sound art.


Dear tutor I bought everything and gave you all.

Breaches of etiquette pocked our new record.  Sharp taps blunt blows. Tap-tap blow-blow. 


It was touching and low if anyhow.


Still you coin sweet sedition like Vargas Llosa, old growth new republic the promised currency in increments of braless dawns.Parties need electrocution.  Some things true some things base some things true and base. 


The defenders point at black sombreros.  Every scope has a vanishing point where intelligence consorts with mirage. 


What happens in Vegastan? 


Inglory shapes a cause market: plus-sized catwalks unfiltered tracks party crashers outed blowers. 


And these only the charming particulates. 


\O public privates This knees to chin doubt in my grip released by your loving lies.



Milenio mejora pronto.


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