One should know these rules before obeying them.

In times like today the past is brought down to our senses. It adds frost to the snow.

Our objectives are to yield fast access to obscure but just-so references and make learning ongoing and theoretical. One learns grasses by heart by having frequent successful experiences.

I’m no model, I just look like one. (Helen Vendler)

As you advance, there are four photographs from which to plagiarize a response, while the materials become more complex, building on what’s been said.

Is that all you're having for dinner?

You need a clearer message. There’s no humor

in discretion. The wind in your hair makes us sick.

We provide all the hip lingo right on screen. And when you come to a three-syllable word you don’t know, you can just look down and see the one-syllable translation of it.

The flower’s name is hooded.

I’m sorry there are blunt geometric forms,

confusion of the spheres, signing in ...

but we have to trust you on this matter. One apiece.

For us, learning about how to learn is important, because it’s a skill one needs when one finally decides to step away from the ring.

A guest ambush suffuses the grasses’ curls; there’s no one now,

my bad-faith sportswriter.

Yes, fool, you sick typist-

follower glowing with lava for brains shimmering ...

hot and cool scrims of mist and water balloons floating over a swimming pool, views down hallways into stairs cut apart and fronted with music waking in hazy brightness without a clue how we got here.

I’d be lying if I said we aren’t criminals.

Space is noncommittal (not nothing)

if you don’t inhabit what you’re saying, shhhh ...


Thanks, Geof, for the first words of Xmas, entered at 2:00 AM. Santa says let him know when he’s on the ground.




I believe we fall to nature so ketchuppy-and-pink that a discreet preeminence in beauty, wit and fashion is established.

I blame the mucous.

I’m flipping out, whoa. A white screen shot. Complete white-out, soft jazz, then lower right, your lips moving up and down, talking design.

Changed my mind. No one can help me to switch landmass.

To set me up is to hit the meaning of being a musician. And it’s clear whose side you’re actually on, landlord.

It’s all been a I-hate-speech act, unfolding calculus to take our little doodles and flesh them out on a frozen earring. And why not?

Well, something above and in us is part doodle and part stockade.

Whatever the ism, this is no way to bear our para-sarcasm — with sidebars. And a tulle underbelly? We’re too busy to remember how it starts — A muddled cool from so many drugs the craftmatics forget to breathe... What you said is part of it. And now my life is made slaphappy-proof to diffuse your feel me up.

Heya, this it or no?


a dream of immense sadness peers through me / as if I were an action poem that couldn’t write

Estheticism is enlarging. Diagnosis is a mystery.

This is a formlet of propositions. Like digital vinyl or handshake painting. Or prayer warriors that are relatively non-contagious.

Then I stumble over this “highbrow posturing” and “chin-stroking art crowd.” Nate Harrison chronicles how the Winstons’ original drum sequence, the Amen Break, from the 1960s has been copied over decades, sampled by 80s hip hoppers, and those samples diced and re-arranged by jungle-djs in the early 90s. By the late 90s dicing / re-arranging might be pushed to extremes, undanceable “fetishisizations” for chin-strokers — Harrison cites Squarepusher, for instance.

I wish you didn’t invite tradespeople over to the house.

Well, you know, I was a fan, for a few weeks, of Squarepusher. (Working in Japan at the time I lost chunks of my pretense-detector. You begin to lose a lot of your native cultural faculties when you live abroad, you even peel off what you thought were built-in parts of your language!) Well, well, closer still is that chin-stroking highbrow posturing. Could that be what I do now, even some of the time? The easier-than-ever synthesis of language overload, the current poetics climate I live in — if you will — does that parallel the extreme, undanceable re-appropriations of the Amen Break? If so, am I so other-directed not to know better? Can I stand up on my own? How small will I get?

Pulling the cord, a cadet steps out of his flight suit and runs bare-ass to the megaphone on the pitcher’s mound. Why, it’s a poet! Right off the guy breaks into a badly chosen sonnet and sestina. The crowd that half-fills the stadium is booing, boozy, lunging, some blowing kisses in the poet’s direction.

The narrative arc remakes itself while the bionic glove is a godsend. The half moon is proud to be garish.


The self, yourself, is fascinating, perhaps to squelch a tautology of greening photons, nominals and actionable conditions that seem certain when hidden in how far you are beaten into their projections.

Self-thief of tables and contents, school love, navy birth and feeling bad about the brief, purest gleam seethed with keen, rank fidelity, a gazing furl trying to gnarl sparkle to figure life together with no vision or dash — no longer having to know.

Your history, ok sunsets standing in the waves like swimmers in spandex smelling of pleasure. Jennifer Moxley’s “arc of grace, a mystical exit from the trap / of birth chance and bloodlines, call it talent / or perhaps obedience: mostly we are poor.”


My area is interpretive search.

You’re always not talking. I get your point (approbation without the tedium of argument).

Ready for some talent management? You’re a smart guy so act like a fan. Keep up your city theme through the wee hours, eat on a budget of $5 a day.

And this is what you can tell me later, every rock lyric has it right. Lasting obstruction is a sure bet process and process reception are not going the right way, rather the way of lovers and colleagues, or of sworn animae and a conflicted self.

Process blockage prompts me to piss and take up tactical reanalysis. (The moral arguments can get gnarly.) The vantage you enjoy leads to something or, more likely, someone opposite blocking your view, redefining a new status quo. Coin tossers regard this as perpetual, rendering fluid obstructions as conflict, which means a noun that acts like a verb, “not to love” (according to Wilhem and Baynes). But conflict is more than just evil if it sharpens ethical focus on esthetic desire, self-regard, and collegiality, as well as the potential utility of enemies.


I do my best and worst work and still get picked on — not in a great way.

How has my first book changed my life? I got stuck on yoga so I put that in. Yet how cool is it when you don’t have a plush isle or anything left to your solutions, beading, ruche, rickrack, or fringe? What if what I write can’t react or be acted on? (Monologues of burning lightning, noiseless migration, honey refusing natural flame.) Sorry, my aural pheromone is too diverse for stopping sex before I undertake image-free philanthropy.

The week will have then proceeded — I’d have to say faith-based notch by notch, snippy, half-baked. What’s relational? I stick in a little yoga. Then I run after you a complete idiot. I’ll have dropped 12 pounds and restructured the deal.

Lines from kari edwards: “...mercury poisoning / abandoned to loading docks / door prize / all well meaning / track homes.” Feel like watching the second half first.


I'm elegant and round. I can't snicker. You can, though.

I'm offline. So I turn blue when I heat up. I blast up by myself when you leave for work. And when you come home I produce a mental readout of how long it will take for you to reach for the newest temperature and humidity and so on.

I can't snicker I'm elegant and round with a mirror finish.