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10/21/2013 · 8:37 am

still exhausting a place

I AIN’T GOT A HOME ANYMORE
to say that name is an extension

So one of us builds        the other
adds the mysterious strobe lights

The design has disappeared
from the Milky Way

just like yesterday
Screw it, who cares

LOVE ME, LOVE
ME SAY THAT YOU LOVE

ME. FOOL ME
FOOL ME

GO ON &
FOOL ME.

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Filed under Disaster, Eastern Michigan University, Experiment, Friends, Michigan, Michigan Writer, Poems, Poetry, Prose, Reading, Revisitations, Sonnets, The Temporal Arts Collective, Winter, Writing

still trying to exhaust a place

What ruins are visible
on my face today

where it once
was forgotten

(the inventor of the bike)
the dish, Riki

I want to see your darkness, dear
golden greensky bluegrass

around you, ugly mug,
great day. Gourmet

adventures, leads me to
hope                I am

closed off,
ugly. Great

day’s gourmet tree town sound
around you        There’s something

beautiful in my mouth
like a tomorrow

that allows us
to bounce off

of each other
to some unearthed gems

like there is a tomorrow
You have a good sense

of style. Can you tell me a little more
about that Pussy

Riot, fragrant world, drowning
in grain, local food.

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Filed under Disaster, Eastern Michigan University, Experiment, Michigan, Michigan Writer, Poems, Poetry, Prose, Reading, Revisitations, The Temporal Arts Collective, Winter, Writing

excerpt from attempting to exhaust a place

Pick your own apples. Please
and

dare I gently kiss
October,

this isn’t the first time we’ve touched
with experimentation

and—today—
a unique sound.                                Fragrant world employing

a momentum from dark squeals
and

—lips that you can’t place
leading you closer

to some crazy
something you may or may not want

to find            ‘only in America.’
What is that cliché?

Sank you
with goodies for special interest

in a song like
‘In Love’ makes drowning

in grain an understated pleasure,
lets swagger slip in.

She’s more adventurous in bed
than health care

after hours and
the known moons must remain open

for you to receive any
or all of the rewards

which will be credited to
a fourth dimension beyond jeans. Don’t say a thing about

How I Lost My Body
unless

there is a sudden surge of rain
or shine

and laughter,
smoking on the balcony, love

is strange when lit up
like mistakes but basically

good. We believe there’s a
manual crammed with footnotes,

parenthetical asides
of love’s end                                                              come

to light, and I
could go on

and on but
there is only so much

time and I
have many things to forget

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Filed under Disaster, Eastern Michigan University, Experiment, Friends, Memoir, Michigan, Michigan Writer, Poems, Poetry, Prose, Reading, Revisitations, The Temporal Arts Collective, Winter

I’m everything…sometimes

A bomb converted a city under
railways of clothing and pleasure. Perhaps
continuous, unavoidable as a creature, alive

through lack of simplicity and light
I’m everything you consider biblical, sometimes
something good depending on the skies

this moment. We’re all the logical
marriages of breath made after love
of gold, a round force to
imagine unlimited
. Tell me there’s room

for a future, a spirit beginning
something to share, to construct, explore
and expand our needs situated in
astronomical wetness and longing a location.

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Filed under Disaster, Eastern Michigan University, Erasure, Experiment, Form, Michigan, Michigan Writer, Poems, Poetry, Prose, Reading, Revisitations, Sonnets, The Temporal Arts Collective, Writing

The Wild Paraphernelia

We, vigorous, form one general statement that love
of rapture is inanimate when unspecified, meaning
longing the wild paraphernalia of experience

—breath becoming air known above likeable skies—
something good screaming with
a present concept of rejuvenation.

Alas! saliva perceived a town—something other
to name, whatnot, arrange things and christen
to a cohesiveness. This is immersion.
Put in something logical, alive, various. Repeat,

bite that noun—perfection. Don’t take
this as a thingamabob being pleasant existence.
There’s craving progress when
desire forms a rhythm under a person.

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Filed under Eastern Michigan University, Experiment, Michigan, Michigan Writer, Poems, Poetry, Prose, Reading, Revisitations, Sonnets, The Temporal Arts Collective, Writing

locātus

I

we shed
become
vast
as
night

to make air

a presence in
a rhythm
of a body
each
shifting

unpunctuated as a world

so
come

here

II

I love the moment
when yer describing some noise
[something like porn music]

that brought a lot of disease
because domesticated animals
didn’t exist before

there was something celebrated
and someone went to look
for China and found no great thing

we said No fucking way,

what does it mean? This world,
we know, everything here
has absolutely nothing
from New England.                                               Just come
over and over again—there’s supposed to be
a permanent headquarters in the heart. Let’s locate it.

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Filed under Eastern Michigan University, Experiment, Michigan, Michigan Writer, Poems, Poetry, Reading, Revisitations, Summer, The Temporal Arts Collective, Writing

Me and Everything is Color continued

XII

Just looking, knowing.
I’m here as paths, the clouds—things,
like anything all with you.
1+1=2. A grand metaphor of

this life. We are here to recall it
—love remains,
love—grey-black & white—
that first moment blurred

the world
I had tones so various
where the sea is

the memory, now
and forever (reach out, take it)
I want more, more of that.

XIII

Time stays patient if sun’s right
I can’t locate nothing

without you. Night is still, nothing
so strange, some specific balance

—forever an idea. Couldn’t guess it, life’s
imponderable echo, but know
nothing is left
a thought. I’m enough that isn’t

beyond the moment, the remnants
of old desire.
There’s nothing more true as now

the moon
will still persist
to say it best or else
.

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Filed under Erasure, Experiment, Form, Michigan, Michigan Writer, Poems, Poetry, Reading, Revisitations, Sonnets, Summer, The Temporal Arts Collective, Writing

Me and Everything is Color

I

It’s night now
—mist’s
a grey blue voice, speaking
there—
My life is its own condition.

Nonetheless,
come by when I’m gone.
I’m here
, I’m singing still
to the sink,

dear. Hard to believe
each night new
I loved you
—body, inside,

out—for me and I DON’T WANNA.
I shouldn’t do more than that.

II

Leave my heart
in a bucket
on the ground.

Head’s a waterfall
—purple lights illuminating
a possibility—

III

I wanted to start
again from some time-stream
still in mind. There’s a possible heaven
in this place.

I’m going to find
a big-assed fresh sea breeze—
waiting for night
and what it means.

IV

Where I’m going
has a home, of things,
and you. I love you, still, to be something
to love.

You’ll love me,
love, enough to
when you can think
it halfway through.

I’d choose you each time.

V

I need some voice,
her voice, to be happy
hear her voice

to be human unchanged
in memory, light
as air—open and warm.

VI

All quiet here
day after day
,
thin faint clouds dance

to find can’t make love. Who am I
—one, the smallest of that feeling
wanting a meaning
.

There are words I want
still in cement,
thoughtful. I’m sitting, writing

this simple one—the wavering places.
Come with me,
this morning again.

VII

Still some quiet.
Give me something
to look at.

I was something. I could touch
all your love
day’s first light

open to me
big endless spaces.

I don’t care. I trust you
day after day
with curtains drawn.

VIII

Who the hell echoes
the sun, round, soft
sounds going round
myself in lateral tiers—love,
in red, it’s all forgotten—

IX

Blue summer’s come
unsteady when drunk
with wondrous voices—thin
delights to bring you
the small spaces in the sun

eloquent, my heart
my funny valentine

coming home again.

X

KISS ME. Kiss me hard
with the past

all goddamn day
there, now here—

XI

Today without sun. You’re only
all there is. Here I am song,
a thing and I was something
by which light shined for
whatever there was.

(experiment with a book of poems by Robert Creeley. August 28-29, 2012. Ann Arbor and Waterford, MI.)

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Filed under Eastern Michigan University, Erasure, Experiment, Michigan, Michigan Writer, Poems, Poetry, Prose, Reading, Revisitations, Sonnets, Summer, The Temporal Arts Collective, Writing

I was a tree house Sonnet

When I was a tree house a blizzard
occurred to me I am going
to be loved
green and gray
all the way upward through time and to everywhere.

I’m partway there. I am blue.
I don’t have complementary colors and I can’t watch
the full moon. I, a cartoon something, understand the feeling
as it swells. You’re my cutie.

It’s almost midnight now,
it’s snowing. We already know this very moment
The stars are water and plenty and happy

to make the bed your secret (yes, that’s it)
with your fables that suggests heaven is still
fresh with fairies and a little doggie.

 

 

(experiment with Ron Padgett’s How to Be Perfect)

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Filed under Erasure, Experiment, Form, Michigan, Michigan Writer, Poems, Poetry, Reading, Revisitations, Sonnets, Summer, Writing