That’s all right.
Another time.


You, my man,
Pastoral you and all it initiates take humane power in socialist space. It’s rare.

Home base, hierarchal Finland: say it’s working through the population.

We’re the entire crew. The socialist’s way.

Two smoky dogs tracking boots in drizzle, shining from sight, playing by stacks of storm windows in restless composure translators can’t reach.

Now where are they?

The wetlands are working this through. (And there’s a new plot — those words we had and didn’t have were consequences. The milieu has been bad. Bad is good, since we know enmeshed values constitute our pit bullhood.)

But I take no liberties writing you now, bubble footed in dark briefs. I have a dream of fair housing: Free-range sunlight in the clerestory to our lair… Some of us are going there after work. Would you like to come?


On a human ~ ant landscape, god is the ant.


Yet our guardians are tired of interruptions and self-
reflective outreach; herein the corporation is late
and lonely as an interdiscipline that threatens.


When is as soon as today? How do I say please, John? Circumstances say it.


Again there’s no natural retrospective because nowhere
Now might tomorrow’s flow of ideas be so boldly hidden ..

Right. It’s past. Passed. What you say reminds me ..
It’s a contraption.

That’s what we say to get “thrown in.” (I remember it starts with poetry students making “circumstances” up.) Welcome, nowhere else!

Where can we enjoy sobriety, the doo (implicative space), beautiful, well pronounced! Does it matter I’m thinking of contradictions until women rule and we go kitty up, so flaming kitty to have nothing retro, rolling figure / ground tension into many feminisms, using little or no math.

It’s ideal. Invite someone missed, John, sing more to wade out above what’s sung

Wade out above the beautiful, well pronounced.

That’s what we yell to joy, lightness, yes
Thrown in doo (where else!) :

The more we wade contradictions
Feminisms are re-reading us in fully sensory hellcat wrath.


I am transitory.

This is what then? “A moment of empty solidity.”


Anyone can take this personally,
including me.

A tree in the wind.

How is it lit? 

Tall with liquid arms;

another is hit and run.

They’re plants from one deity.

That’s what led to our church shifting

toward showdowns at the riverbed, O

for fuck’s sake. Impulsive.

Back to work.

Show’s over. Go ahead. Go


It’s irreparable.

But it’s in the repair shop because

It is the repair shop.

I’ll do what I can. Another day, slim odds. Almost the same as hopeless;

Different jokes turn over in sleep, dreams that forgive me for almost everything
but that belated audition,
trapping you if you let go while yielding authority.

I .. Hey

.. I talk in a low register to get inside my face. My brow sports layers of sleep
relief, aching in baby, cutely accruing intimacy to belie despair over zero gravity.
So there’s no dead end!


Fearless presence bears repeating.

A wild or perhaps even a good guess as to what readers crave is a byproduct of becoming a decent reader. One writer rarely reads alone, and that’s part of the saga of collectivity and simultaneity. She and others pick up similar texts, comparable projects; snowballs start flying. When a writer thinks in public about what she’s reading, she’s taking aim and will be aimed at in turn, pro and con. This is one yarn of opinion acclimatization, hardly superfluous.

The signature concern is a reader’s experience. It’s peculiarly nepotistic, another point, that so many writers simultaneously figure out readers’ expectations within multiple, extra literary contexts, politics, nonprofit cultural construction, corporate performance theory and the like.

Thinking more decentrally: A brazen writer like Nicole Brossard distinguishes herself taming her otherness and the other-directedness that she (writer) and (s)he (reader) share.

You don’t want her festivity so much as your investigation into her iconoclasm. It would be abetting deeper juxtaposition to bracket one’s enjoyment just to explore alarm and vacuity anyone else had previously not known. How does she know? How does she improvise? What timing(s)? How do you account for a received notion “being in the present”? Even better.

on levait la tête on aimait les petits arbres
derrière le fer forgé du cinquième étage
personne ne tombait jamais
plus bas que notre habitude de la vie

[taking pleasure in these trees, looking up
through the 5th floor wrought iron
nobody ever falls lower than
this, what we make our habit in life]

The narrator who claims personne ne tombait jamais speaks for me and anyone who wants and takes enjoyment with no palpable fear of falling.

While translating freely is not always the fairest compliment a writer may pay another, it is one entry for empathy (How does she improvise?) as well as beginning to appreciate Brossard’s command of what is suggested here (How does she know?). And in four short lines we stumble across habitude. It is a writer’s answer, Brossard’s answer for now, to be in the present.


Affordable Noh. That’s us with big hanging wolf eyes. We’re a match in perseverance, trying to spook breathing
pedagogy when we meet somersaulting in /

What goes around then comes gasping, the more irregular the breathing —
looks like he’s breathing! A spoon worm lives inside the womb,
a male redback dives inside the reproductive tract!

into his mates’ fangs just to get eaten while copulating!


I’m going to leave you in the middle of the city where you belong, you robot.


At fight camp all you bring are wet marks over your shirt — there you go — sent,

Slotted for long scream divisions raising heads front and center.
Grateful lines of argument stampede out bourn in eager heartbeats and bright debate

Drawing youthful boundaries along dark areas of propaganda
And owing to your interest... this won’t ever constitute a date.
Or only one of many as noted by a third party.

The terms are, go settle down through the evening and finish your agenda
At gunpoint. Perhaps heartbeats get covered by a shroud that frays
And unspools to gain advantage spreading the plan. Imprisoning refinement.


Cold draft.

It was a place to ... what’s this put up or shut down? It began on airlines. Nice houses were everywhere. Let’s remake this old place with coffered ceilings, make it a dollhouse. When prices hurry up, everything will be felicitously stuccoed, ultimatums rephrased, and moral aspiration will again become footloose and empirically incontestable as Seven Bagatelles.


Vernacular reductions come next. Here they are. Romulus and Remus. Appetite and style,
core lemons of classicism, romanticism too. Appetite includes style but style
directs bitter taste and other pretenses of appetite. A she wolf looks after style.

I hear Carol Breakdown is hard to get.


Takes substance and breadth, not at this end; the going price reacts to audacious desire

(a rare cigarette case, may I?) looked after in dangerous tranquility and

No thanks. Just piano and voice. Piano and voice. Practice.

The big meal. Inductions to your other habits;

Just because we’re snarly, externalizing ideas.

The gleaming haze drags down sculptures of needle-felted wool

Like nerves warmed over by spinning in freezing wind.

Stuff. I don’t yet know the scent of snow and sunlight, of your utter loss

— of whatnot in over the counter contextuals and scent, those scents.


Bolo tie sad.


The drill of local news, temperature, 2 hours of indebtedness, fascinating stack of known challenges — locality reduced to economy, co-rejecting isms off center. Both influence perception, both engage what leftists and the right make up as sources. Nothing in between. Nothing to uphold. More below.


It’s simple (the invention of worship is over.. )

Like autoeroticism for one. (So much over: the topic is civility.)

We impart numeric dicta slathered with platitudes — century-old middle ground (the themeless module) where we sleep (fields of action) and continue playing around vulgar innuendo to stay kind, as you undress to force a smile, fully emancipating me to feel obliged to receive you generously.

We are free — still — to say what some think — but their recipes, or ours, are adulterated, perfused with feminist modernism; if not that, we’re cruising at altitudes of theorem.

Trees in place, defiantly miscellaneous, thanks to a compliant Leitkultur, a treeway on a berm, backdrop to the ideal civil democratic union with permissions built on headwinds —

Add one summation to sow

Headwinds within and, as it were, without manners. Good manners can scar others but they also let us peons act like participants in marking time as though subscribers to the regulatory plutocracy. Either way, I know so little about the state and the state so much less, so here are the details.


May I reconcile friends who are angry. Toss all night. Know they lost.

They know imposters lurk in one friendship. It means something
But not enough.

You can never expect it and when it happens, it’s fantastic.
What? Why are you crying?

I don’t know! I’m Yoko and Hymen!

Then quit it!



You’re on every page I never mention you.
There aren’t enough shortcuts to go around,
Your soul is on break, in a style of incompletion (Otto Bismarck),
Obsequious, sharpened anomalies w/ bait

: A new music took off about here.

Hands in the air.
No motives — the harsh gets exaggerated.
And a smudged view needs count on (you). Capital will be redefined

: Here, 1st. It’s feeling wonderful from the start
And breakpoints, thinning out
Obsequious, sharpened anomalies w/ bait

— you can’t predict what you’ll drive to get to the 5th element
To encapsulate our suspicions…

2 out of 20 come around,
They slow up together.


We are one species
meaning many different things at one time all over time :

May I wish others well.

Well, I knew m’lord was a prevaricating, bloodlust child — the writs of Rolfe d’Hampole had warned — unceasing sycophant, his incarnadine shadow spilt down dim stairwells to redden more, divagating before olive branches in nightfall, exhorter of few changes, hardly any.


Dinner in precision blizzard-words,
Reversed decisions rotating surf a mercurial quantum
Shift, soft, whispered could occur. You’ll want circles and circuits redressing
The boat’s cortex attention to holding out to
Say when. Pulse, how did you say when? There’s a form, learning windows..
A chestnut travels well. Chestnuts stand around in jobbed hoards.
Coupons expire.


Cold draft.

At / a new level of storytelling nationwide is on your side.

It has to go with something like a pigeon guided missile or thing

As there are centers of wishing beyond closed doors.

All batteries are charged (that’s the feeling). I’m pouring molasses over my track pants ‘stitched’ with microfiber — I’m about to walk the spiral and more! Ladytron is carrying this note of irony back to my pals.


1. If there were a don’t fuck it over manifesto it would be
Why make so much of leftist political origin 3.
Start for free 9. Let’s call this time left.. the end of the beginning if
up in the cloud sounds too.. liberal? My guard-up was a lot.
..that triangular jot ...
of 10. That a phone or fingernail of?
How do parallels threaten a referent? Which fox drug is best?
12. The front gate won’t front
13. Spot the dog.. or now his surrogate intruding a moment before he’s emptied.
Intrusions entail teamwork, coincidentally.




It’s too late to beg.
Songs of what’s around us never miss a beat

Like unwashed hair, maybe a style of crooning

Rum-soaked exclaiming

 — the place’s been wiped clean.
Liquor and nerves committed to memory.


Don’t worry. I’m a doctor.


Summer holds spring!
Who am I?


May I be no one’s enemy. May I not quarrel: and if I do, may the quarrel end fast. May I love and do some good. May I wish others well. May I not rejoice in their ill fortune. May I reconcile angry friends. May I not turn away friends in danger. When visiting anyone in grief may I use healing words. May I respect myself. — 3rd Century


Pardon me while I disband our friendship.

(Restoring your feeling is one of my hobbies.)
It’s a difficult style.

We’re both harder to explain now. A head-on view.
The subject box reads I am who?


Something inside snaps.. Try putting a poetics in a coma.
I wouldn’t dream of it.


I’ll take it.

The coast is never clear, fat boy,

The ingenue lacks charm and extends an inhospitable hand. That’s how unclear. Leasing cars to dead people, along with wheelchairs, that’s quirky.

(Poetics process stuff. Ketchupy.)

I’ll take it.

I’m bipolar. You know. What? We can make the poem go mute. If it doesn’t speak, we don’t have to pay it as much. A world-less deaf-mute.


I may have taken a 24-hour cold tablet (they took them off the market for humans) and my brain is boinging forward into TV-noir starring Max Headroom — remember the ex-sprinter who played him? While the show was popular for three weeks Max’s asymmetrical haircut started to give male pattern balding a tolerable hipster panache.

The coast is never clear, fat boy.

After Max was canceled you noticed this guy doing a few walk-ons before monotone backgrounds in other failed series and then commercials. He sunk fast, poor Max. Like these sharp pellets slicing through the blood, sinking me south by southwest, bullets pointing down and out my feet.


Are you healthy enough for perfection?

A head-on view looks toward emptiness, embraces it

But speaking the usual way subverts expectations.
A stencil of the dialog frames others, tho
As a thought pays homage to paying homage, finding its subject.

A gridded compartment will decide most perfectionism is an error

And to appropriate is to provoke both nature and discourse.

Those organized under a strong gesture shall triumph.
The frame knows this and uses communication among friends, a dissonance born of necessity, one dialog reflecting gritty highly-trafficked back alleys of seduction and violence. Oo oo it’s discovered her voice.


Eurozone class struggle is more and more slippery. Or peach-dreamy. I’m not sure discourse product pertains. A shrine of axioms certifies wealth and income distribution, honing you / one into two dimensions on the surface.

I’m socialist by nature, maintaining perspective (the tatemae policy), I’m spooked
while cashing in analytics
(lifting data off) to mine parallelisms (partisan gold).

Atheism is otherwise the main event at the Hague. Secrets of satire want to float
free to find an informatics of doors opening (bassoon music) and structured
multiplicities (an ear for sex).

The glue is “Token Austerity.”