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.
to make air
a presence in
of a body
unpunctuated as a world
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.
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—grey-black & white—
that first moment blurred
I had tones so various
where the sea is
the memory, now
and forever (reach out, take it)
I want more, more of that.
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
will still persist
to say it best or else.
It’s night now
a grey blue voice, speaking
there—My life is its own condition.
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
out—for me and I DON’T WANNA.
I shouldn’t do more than that.
Leave my heart
in a bucket
on the ground.
Head’s a waterfall
—purple lights illuminating
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.
Where I’m going
has a home, of things,
and you. I love you, still, to be something
You’ll love me,
love, enough to
when you can think
it halfway through.
I’d choose you each time.
I need some voice,
her voice, to be happy
hear her voice
to be human unchanged
in memory, light
as air—open and warm.
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.
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.
Who the hell echoes
the sun, round, soft
sounds going round
myself in lateral tiers—love,
in red, it’s all forgotten—
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.
KISS ME. Kiss me hard
with the past
all goddamn day
there, now here—
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.)
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)
I just saw a beetle bounce out of the grass. I don’t know why I started this note with a beetle bouncing out of grass or why I didn’t write wriggled. (I just like those Bs next to each other.) But… I’m thinking of you. And your dress and the lightning from last night. Perhaps your dress had lightning in it as my pocket is filled with electricity. Now
I am thinking of how your fingers are filled of dawn. Of hope.
I hope I remember to get the ghosts out of my refrigerator before I see you again.
I have a beard of grapes and I love your ice cream lips. I especially love your driftwood eyes and when they land on my land, and how your little arms are little beds of snow and babe, I want to fall all over your land. If you know what I mean. (Wink.) I mean
your voice is a picnic in my ears and I want to carry your heart in a little box in my pocket, love burning with the odor of twilight
I’ve been trying to bracket off my radiator mouth but there’s too much grease in it and a rubber bell that rings like an ice cream truck muffled by my wool throat.
Call me Roberto, and I’ll be Roberto. Call me granite because I’m hard to cut through, though
I hope if you call me skull it’s because I’m in your head. Call me insomnia and I’ll be in your bed. Call me a grenade and I’ll be an explosion like those in Afghanistan till you feel my love in your teeth at night while you sit on the porch, watching lightning strike the grass as you feel the wind comb through your hair to graze your face as I am both a grenade and the wind at night.
Love is no mirror, it’s a pit and you’re the pit
of a peach that I want to taste as night begins I multiply more than electricity. I don’t care what you call me, as long as you call me. Love
There’s not much to write about today.
Last night I sat on the porch and watched the lightning comb through the sky.
DTE turned off the electricity yesterday and I have grapes and ice cream and ghosts in the refrigerator that I must eat soon. Shall we have a picnic?
I am heating the house with driftwood I gathered from the beach and I found my heart there, too. Weird. I thought I left it resting on the radiator.
I am happy on the hillside
and you are
all a blur.
You are so [ ].
(Complete the word.)
I don’t know.
I didn’t want to speak
of certain things, how
all the days burned
so cheaply as a symbol.
Already it’s time and nothing is
on the beach. Desire is
a moment long enough for a hand without sweet-talk
in the mouth.
I didn’t notice the
fragile things. Color begins from
the season’s memory of
desire turns into a river.
I am called lava and water.
I am everywhere.
You are my light
sparkling up, coming back home.
Say: here is room
enough for you
and an orange.
I miss you. In the summer
never any closer, not quite there,
far too much
in the present
I could be the night unfolding
that place where sound is a… hush now.
I’m hot as hell, thin and
lonely with the hope… I don’t know.
I come back home
to scrape heaven’s
kind of silence
thou shalt not
take this sound
filled with mist to
appear infinite falling in love
with a tongue, falling in love
each morning, shaping
this small place and I said like a child:
The rain begins
promising continental breakfast.
I am gourmet in my bed.
The wind simply takes you
to all the scattered ideas,
once home not home yet
maybe of love, one is plenty.
Tonight, I was a little bird,
brilliant and something beautiful.
I said wait, stay with me with broken metaphors.
No—I wanted a tale free of the hypotenuse,
the tricky algorithm.
I can’t deny the flowers
in your blue tongue stuck with sweetness.
I had made something like this,
a whole life, in the dark.
Love, you can sway, it’s summer.
The eucalyptus trees
in my heart could be loved
if I could
be a priest.
(experiment with the Fishouse anthology.) August 14th-17th, 2012. Reconstructed in Ann Arbor, Milford, Waterford, White Lake, Michigan.
The earth shook when you came
—it did!—and time was like
nothing. And I trembled, as if
lost like smoke, then felt your
crazy cool water and I was
nothing. We said always, said rock.
I said: Let me be your
rock. I want the vast star
in your twilight heart with its
honey light and delights flaring through
your mouth. I’m hungry for the
world in your laugh. I want
to eat the darkness hidden behind
your eyes and I’m starving, darling
—July 24, 2012. 6:18 p.m. EST. Milford, MI
The bees in
me begin to
sing as if
your love were
honey. I say,
“Honey, I am
stuck on you..
and I love
it, as stones
through the richness
of June and
all the cold
time of winter
—July 24, 2012. 6:48 p.m. EST. Milford, MI
What bird brought you so quickly to where
I live? I lived with so much slowness.
I filled goblets with all the cold scents
of winter and so much dark nothing each
night to these lips till you came with
gifts of the sun in your glance. Now
waves color your kisses with the blue light
of dawn. Perhaps you are a handful of
sun. I don’t know. I know I want
you as summer wants yellow, roses want red,
as a harvest hungers for a little rain.
Perhaps I’m too simple and too silly.
I don’t know, all I know is that
it’s simple to love you, silly not to
—July 24, 2012. 8:06 p.m. EST. Milford, MI
(continuation of my experiment with vowels from Neruda’s 100 Love Sonnets)