EVERY LINES OTHER
Continuous piece on tape. Cut with various textures (self doing this: "Look I'm") Look blankly at mountains. Stop, move. (multi-phonic held buzzing, radio static, shortwave song) Loving this woman again. The same one tone. He shuts the radio at lean three in out loud new tongue book on words dressing. My hand backseat the pencil will type on later. The self sensing of a book from love looks up in a bridge, under the mississippi. The reader forgets which store she's in, "lost in" or "NAIL BREAD". Signs are everywhere. Niches imagined. Four fire hydrants stacked, yellow/green, red/orange on top (A glance extended to renovated permits; our house before my self. The voice hearing itself. Slows Down. Car hum recedes. An all at once delivery excepted, "where cows are boars & books are people." (Gravel clicks. The logs of the house she grew up in a year were brown fences & brown garage. She singing with engine up the other wise, remembers the view.
Sugarloaf is rather creamy than brown turned yellow & purple in spots for late October. I asked it where Ann Sykes lives & it finally spelled AZ. Goodbye. Louis Sukovsky. I am his wife & I know I have turned in this direction. "This is Coon Valley!" he mimmickks his explanation
I retrieve my pencil thoughts
to be able
stand out. "Blanks create no alternative." Robert calls his brother "void head" but his mother refuses to talk about matters of the mind. (Who IS the voice that here is a sentence that sings, & that eye is no organ in clusters parading, out of time, POLYMETER, capitals blacker in some, stances or stanzas in groups of others. Creak the door open: simple words mince cheese. Another town taken, "kwiktrip", cramped inspiration.
At home with the toaster & the telling, cat & child fed each other well. Two hands exchange a key which later stroke backs in embrace. Ah, K or C, we're joint witnesses on this burly boat, does there ever shake a ladder over board? That night, three admire (smirk) a barred woman whose huff pardoned the waves. (That one again never tucks powder up tooth out of sachel.)
This stop will be nightly. A ways from the sticking edge, long after music: the grind smells deligthful. Circles arriving full circle dance up the aisle with eves. ChooChoo remembers the word for neck. Let fo to each other, I say of my back. Not simply switched, but broaching the meaning. One continuous right past the place to stop where the neck releases dream-words.
Self at causes. Talkers "over there" for anew looks familiar. Rather "on that side" or "incommunion", i sit in MY "art world", we who sit on our ceiling. Words impart or words impasse or are tey used as heard. They tick-idio agreeing; pompous ask me what i do. For the water-poor fed ones i paid forgetting first forever push.
"Ten thousand grunts & no solutions!" The chalk line strays. Budged: a heavy word stirs, blinks. Adaption.
Destruction: I bear my answers & they are obvious. "Obviously" I am oblivious. Told across the ocean, I swim in for reply: I swim alone. The aloneness of a mind that's the middle of much, with holes or walls. Loving too, we're side of two stumps, no trudgery but unaware shackled. I swim foreplay: erotic distraction or dissected line. Another door.
Music back ground. Each majestic highering good, this beauty under pulling grip out. Going into binary, this & this, boulder stepped on, I'm hoping their conservation is still music. Anticipating conversational comfort. Ragged reads punk. Interval of generation? Rush hands into water before unlocking the bike with the moon gleaming. Darn joy. A darker man re-enters. Even dashed. The seriousness of love crawls in further. Do you hear the laps & layers over the background? I keep wishing I was thralling.
Divorced from all coming, fried past the sound of sizzling, aside my arm pages of letters. The clock has the same face, but this morning I was dreaming about swimming & cake. Re past friend now female "stitched before graduated", grateful I had to do with it. The mind oils rubber to turn around to see it. "It doesn't & it does" as a sentence mimics a genre. Not to be tempted. Or aware of itself, isn't that game? Winners don't think. As the one-studying-the-book's outside next to me. "Dangling" is a word describing an achronology of words: Is as enclitically removed? Surgery rhymes with a lie. Cause I saw it through to the other side of the tracks. Near exclamatory over the access to a personal metaphor. "My own" "but how can the writer presume." In other worlds, your train or mine. That one might claim a signifier, strung or single. Metaphors as assets, or even words that stand for books. "Higgling" for example is not even the title, & yet I see its cover with that stacked name amidst colors & others hearing it. A word means tired, so someone offers a drug. How long was the session? (Play might arrive at any moment.) The parentheses remind her of onion leaves, but only a few might guess. Presumption is rather sure thrill with an inkling for sharing, aside from actually flapping arms with that reader. The closest leaves share a look of face, however, in view of the words which were last written.
Turning every word to leaf lies in color with a rhyming of head.
An aligning past the point of flight.
Words asleep fell to the ground with no order under the same tree.
Gathered, I at least scatter behind myself.
Who kicks the mud is the question.
I know this is a honing, some sort of growth or pre-growth, as if the bud weren't a leaf.
Distraction, the smother of perception. Upper arms stand for one volume erroneously titled "Love"; the one-way signs every which way lining the direction of the thought itself is another, no problem but something to be changed. Even but makes for contention. Better the rear end, we smile. And perception plunges below the conversation level, "How can woman know injustice & do injustice" still no one asks the question. I recognize the modems of division, but I haven't tasted of the root enough to fortify its leaves. Thus I remain in pile. "Too many people being bowhere at once" he snarls in synchrony.
Ruling out the lone hill or for now, the base of that thinking tree, I watch the centered one not consciously selective, nor conscience of condition, one arm under the dishes, cleanly arranging lines of thought. I press my feeling into you, make a lasting, VOCA LIES. How many trains go by before I look up? Even as I write. No right to be called odd, or often ordinarily asleep. Or pert at the wrong station. The greeks make noise to say "meaningful" long & drawn out. Forward remembers something new.
Slipping on the colors. The raw arm of the pencil, or the flood of paint tamed: xexoxial warlings, hearing the font limey seizmic contusions. The T spills over into kaos. Subliminal roars; this spelled right, that combusted. Catching hold of. And also sound, which reminds us of snow: quieter noise. And this strange quiet woman stepping read her writing, shy & articulate, a close opposite to me.
Even encounter. Each perception. Dreams ailing food across stomach, intimacy that would otherwise come unhinged, remembered. I am every owman, hearts there, more is here. Unconnected signs. Or sighs beginning a whole thought. Never ending? Equals sameness, or duration, which changes.
Figuring is out, when otherwise stuck in a circular emotion. Such thought detaches itself, a start.
Red seethrough light bulb on its side, vibrating like a cricket. With eyes closed, I see my body standing triangular: pregnant in Bisbee. Silouette of wooden buildings at morning. The words are too heavy & I drop them. Do they tell a story or is there none? "I'll take Melissa". But the characters aren't met, except under the heel. Somebody's been in every town, for years. Touch that clearing of the more around my aural.
The "born writer" "has it". This hazard is over, the ear next to meaning. At a turtle's pace or in a turtle's place: the ink boils in my cauldron spilling or the lines. But not matching the thickness of thought, the nap gets creased. Like waking up before going asleep; fabric of mind uncertain. (My narrator wants to sit in the station again & wait.) All the while, apparent looking on a nest of feelings, a net selfstrong, the deftness glaring when no conflagration.
Forward in a ring.
Glands for marraige.
Hot belief churns the blood downward, your all the man.
These commas are like lines, lay them out, one after a spell, the next match burns hotter.
Always the flair, ended with a certainty, nor brass, nor chair, not gumbo. You affair staged spontaneously trespassing lest rhyme be the heart. Beat the joining, man fortress. Still this listing, poised, shifts hearer tempest. In turn all the sun.
M isn't bothered, not another thought, on to the next thing.
L recounts the mishap, weighing gold or dirt.
I did feel at home, taking the freedom to grunt, stretch, or borrow.
I'm more toward than they know.
A splinter crack in my muddied crystal "no room no room but do come in".
Is an unending radio in the space below.
I can picture you drawing your space in that house with invisible strokes.
I can see you better now than when the ants had their blindfolds on, inviting me to watch them. talk.
A criminal in the company of proud new laws, taken aside to talk of deviation, "You're one of us as I tell you this & yet we assume you know nothing."
On the contrary too much unsettles my present standing here, waiting for the suspension to break as if one of them might wake up, who dares to dream of his own power. "Or her". I am a monger eating the wrong words.
In the advantage of time cleanly love "minus the" where I can see how easy it is to be red. Eventuring the moistest dark cold corner grows a greenish glow that looks at you & is deeper. Dreams again a mentor, one like a rabbi teaching winds & one a woman you have to enter a floor way above a climbing you whine but have made it before. Fear & relief, forbidding with love. As I bleed, a blur is dissolving. The stuff cages are made of is forged by the same jaw:strong & pouting. (Semantics are an association wet in the dressing room but here"out of line")
I wasn't the stops or the spots or the way she connected them but the fact that they skipped over something or something was was repeated. And over and the same line, missing an other curve of things. Even now gaily resentencing an old hog.
Feeling good equals not the desired state, nor does looseness always open the lover's equilibrium. Mine heart quivers thoughts of a woman who lied & marred us both in her retraction. No word each day equalling former days called consistently mornings now no mourning enables movement. I salve the jagged holes left swollen & tender, though we need whole remedies for renewal.
And my wings house another, alone on his own who yearns too much my curving dominance. So I lie as well, I do & I don't & sometimes I breed further addition which my first deems subtraction (from distraction). Mine whines at outer edges, free from heart strain thus unsafe for flying. "I thank you for difficulty", though sincerity had only just met.
Allowed to play with crumbs late at night, i tear the license in half, as it was not given.
The very mirroring of time as I walk up this street, squinting to not see in order to mirror myself ahead. "Lodged again in the place that doesn't happen,"the glass blower reflects flatly. Whether the boxer falls asleep in the ring or my tongue instructs a thousand men to wield, I forget.
It is then I get to close up & go home, when few have gone & I am left alone to bother.
Living by the clock of a generic diary while theory lies in disarray. Why its tempting to borrow from science, you even wonder about dream synapses evenly escaping from time. (A perfect simplicity stood there again & again for re-view.) Perfect as a prefix.
"Wakests" is a word complied in a row of wooden letters, large & salmon like the body, which moans to speak for itself.
Having spoken, at least a clean page forward, my body forgets all but the taste of mint. Only when you hold the numbers up to it does the loosing equal the loss. Something's got the turnover. The orgasm expends & declined to let go.
A winter oscillator, list these things for attention, this rack & that line, curved up around the mouth. All holes holding hands, meaning the bodily exchange if universal is more than body.
Wakeful concern over the time being. This itch shadows that pain. That I can feel to its bottom, mixed-up with love. Sadness can happen as well. WElled up, but not walled within. LIstening for some singing, the shutting door would do. No blood on the snow, invisible ache times to confound.
Beside me an age-old youth. I shared his loincloth & his cell dream. This man has been there & back while I was learning to play it. He was my sister before I kissed him is how I know. A bicycle tire doesn't always turn into a night upstairs, sometimes the sleeplessness carouses a memory.
Stuck on the couple with the gray pants & cane.
The piece of paper without the cookie said "When we have not what we like, we must like what we have."
Compassion & love on two sides of the snowbound street.
Everything fits, even the bites & the woman yelling at her dog.
And the thing keeps turning.
I am not owned again I forget my heart spun straight head.
As in orthos, for of course this is not ordinary.
She looked at me, behind us.
She knows no drama, she lives bizarrely as naturally as I play ann accompaniment.
(Wondering is cold is seeping in.)
Doubt is a fungus we rub into each other.
You salve quietly: I hug into it.
See, this budding is for you.
But bugged by any number of incestuous habits of removal, you dig us gravely misunderstood.
We let our eyeballs leak at our leisure, the way the tomkins do. One movement cracks the bell, which like leaves vane in fractured direction. "My heart in a paper bag", the thinker knows. (She had invented an urgency.) He singing the song I dropped. "Paper bag full of Waaaater" What reverberates is farther south. The reflection of which I am. With a hat & another, two tongues as ill. Tripped again over herself too quickly. Words rumble by as usually they traverse, occluding heart thought & language as well.
I could have cut out the crackling, precluded the scar, initiated a strength.
Which pace grows change all the deeper more gentle.
A duo-persona has its own unhyphenated identity, one said "qua de faire", live quotient of bean. That two things can exist together at the same time as one lights the candles on the table. M & N, in sequence a pair; M & W, on top of each other; M & A, a way to communicate; L & W, on either side of "A". Without the itch, a family can't communion.
A firing of lines welcomes witches in. Opening teeming stuffed. The gale breaks on a mind of its own, while yonder drifts, the snores rhyme & hedges tilt. "Squirrels living in chestnut-shaped houses"? The "N" "in the family name", importance a mask in the mirror, looking for she who looks. Straight ahead makes one direction all the way around a map of psychology torn to shred at our feet. Each piece rises in defiance of itself, asserting assertion, backed by blindness, lined up for the couch.
From an empty white bucket I pick moist dust clumps.
I handle my breasts from behind.
Which hair approaches?
A velvet young boy.
Am I said, among the path, to be its ginger-edged witch?
You forget how small bubbles can be.
The ground dies when too solid, disperses when drenched.
A plane to walk on, a poketful of berries.
She would spread it all over the mouth if it was redder.
Born without a tub or hung on the doornail, only one of the remaining children actually built things from scratch.
Our knowing lies behind us breathing in no impatient manner.
Time, to leave.
Could be under suspension, taken over, pinched perfrectly.
(Encasing air, encasing water)
"I remember now" means I built a floodgate.
Two must wakest.
Madly reconstructing language against a habitual harangue or passing off. Holding a policy, out to turn over feeling, let alone magic might vibration. "He's our," & not one of them, dares. Fears what they "we're a group I can't" and none does. No outlet means no opening, I'd be "outnow" too.
How to breathe with a pen: When the mind requires notation, the body must sit still. It is this kind of thinking requirement, here to catch them before they grow, these stray clouds of association with or without heart. Take care that the mind breathes first freshly.
I learn history & recall the smell of the future by juxtaposing two men. The second can be several, but only the first brews so darkly. Most life is he fungus-putrid-new-you-can't-ignore compared to we-circle-smilers-laugh-&-recall-the-same-cat. Growth itself smells funny. Ugly & bubbling. But am I standing still even air I write.
No way out when the two doors face each other.
I think that I am leaving myself a body of language. So that, reading their book, by then soiled like a bible & hopefully torn in places, we will remember things like the humidity of the polyglot's nature & the earliest time I excelled in parenthetical paraphrenalia. However, it occurs to me that a body houses. Moved into & grow out of. Are metaphors more than gravy? Aimlessness at its finest---or lines self-deceived? I beware that these words, as written or as read, satisfy. Not unlike the tone of a saxophone when there is alas no song being sung.
"Mine". How deep grooves the possession. Infused & emblooded? Treacherous thin goes my reach for this one, while thick & embodied with all those seeming. And more to incorporate. The road is blind by this point. Hozy magnified thought stuck staring at a single tree.
My Me-Kell: A sunken verdent road flanked by red. His younger face was just where over my sweet pug no age descneds. How green can cold be?