you're so reasonable & I'm so maudlin

I'm a model. I moved to New York City to walk down the sidewalks in towering alexander mcqueens and nylons ripped at the knees. I'm so modeling right now, it's insane. EVEN under the thunderstorms, here in the city, right next to the piers where the concerts glow at night, and the summer-stench crawls from beneath chinatown drains, with the women whispering from staircases, the escapes from fires don't pull down, that never seem to work. The women here are talking bored about child support & doctor's bills, and I am wearing too much copper so rains like these move my skin off, they patina my bones and veins. But since I am so modelin' right now, I am all ribs and clavicles, and my jutting hip on which a trouser-waist sits hangs like a hanger, as I am. I'm a model, and I moved to New York City to stumble down the streets in the earlymorning dark, after salons in my prada pumps. I'm sooooo modeling, but then there is you & you are so able to reason. You aren't even here in New York City because you couldn't exist here, because the beach touches the asphalt and the flowers are spare and wispy, and my hair never ever tries to grow here because only the molds and bugs and beauties of the undergrowth underbenches underground can grow, and my one face melts into nothing with the splay of the city, the stupid subway stench in identical nostrils, and we all evaporate simultaneously. You can't be here, because no one is here, and you are so real, so reasonable. Those days (these, of summer here) are entire worlds, are lifetimes and the end never darkens, just turns to puce & salmons & body-odor vermilions, and the sun rises unobtrusively and casual is the steam from the jamaica bay fog. A man in a yellow convertible comes to me, hawaiaan shirted, and I begin to fall back into the walk I do.

17: cedar shadow, waxwing warts

To lay in the moss, a cedar waxwing floating soundless back & forth over my body. A bed of goldspeck lichens, the tundra, cushioning me like alcohol. In the corners of my eyes loop-lichens play their paths, winding around their yellow-cored families. The dog-lichens chase them across the pale-bellied daisy; mount atlas rising in a distance through the fog. I feel a pinch and then the calm blood from the wound of a snapdragon, its wild dog-mouth bared but toothless. Meaning no harm. I take a bite from the devil's fig and share the rest with a goose lounging nearby in the snow. The world was covered with a fine spray of dot lichens, their frosty-rimmed thalli pricking the light. The roving morning and dot lichens now in shadow; a cascade of soft warts across my sleeping skin.

19: spring snowflake lichens

Like a snowflake (in spring), and the only character around is a goose (Canada). I, along with water hesitate, churning my hands in and out of air (an element of some water there), the fine fog surrounding the frost-lined water. The goose (biting at the snow) warns of impending something. I scratch my flesh; wart lichens happening to grow across my calves and knees (bitter, I am at this, but still in wonder at the colors & textures). The fine dirt below, the rockbright glimpse shining off cliffs. Your own cliffs, your own fuzzed & lichencovered rocks (testes), there, so in my mind a snowflake (in summer). Your own resurrection plant. I admit, there were tranquilizers, but this was a summer of regretlessness! Awakening to the sound of the sparrow, the scent of soapwort as it sapped across my happy earlymorning body! My skin in the cold, cold pond, the scratch of thornbush lichens (coastal) combing through my hair.

pretty again, little again

pretty little, one


I remember now… I am not asleep and I am not aching; I am aberrant in my sitting tiny at the table. A white fog sits rightly back with me and, departing from accepted standards, we both exist meanwhile, cramped in an apartment. Anxious we seem overall; but inside we're something amazing, deviant, abnormal. There are doilies everywhere, conifers in the backyard… Maybe now to listen: it's atypical, anomalous, and we're talking over the television, over the whir of the ceiling fan.

Hill-less, the fog notes, sidelong glancing out the window.

The sunset is careless, without any sense of only four hours of red. The unpleasant brown cat is perched sometimes of sleep. We're entranced by France as a tiny situation. The time left until awakening is a sterile state delicately centered on yesterday. A clean bed is an ornately crocheted doily. One of those, feeling it surely isn’t.

Maximum homemade from pale blue days. Feeling like to die until I can find a way solemnly, turning pages, to be done for. Wondering softly, electricity. Wondering how, a belief about anything else ever. Today once more I’ll wake up, claim this voice that’s arisen. Grip on my doing & why.

In the morning, annul sarcastically important points: A grand way to meet those beautiful acidulous nonexistents.


Sleeping in any year, any day,
girls or women sharp-tasting or sour;
good to sound with someone
starts nice
I should say
pleasantly
In aqua remarks.

Even with the sounds around.

Then begins congested as
though the throat turned-up,
tone bitter, cutting
telephone rings
and the bedclothes beginning
to ache, orange-freckled and
bitter at caller.

Never is it pure
and shoulders

Typically
perfect beneficial, most simple…
tall of speech opportunity, just miss
(I don’t) a wide, skeletal
poem possibility.
treasured find
a body bag smile and a
danish accent.
Word and future.
sleep and soon, I’ll not know finally.
Puzzle shaking, annoyed
rye for a reason,
from Paris with the shaved composition in which possibility embraces
that there’s someone else.
Plenty inspirational.
Certain letters in each line might stir
something from within.

I miss someone. I wish eyebrows.
Form a word still looking when I’m sleeping.
reason could explain the latter,
or words at alone sometimes… this!
Oh, is my favorite, acuity. So there you have
but who, really. I just wish it could
(with uncertain English)
(and sharpness or keenness of thought),
this one example.

I want to be there
I know your name,
a shy sweet vision
on hearing.
Who is taken with me
because I read it,
from quality.

An enlarged mass of absurd.
I will and do fall.
a highly possible in love with urgent you,
layered, often obstructing
breathing, liking
to you. frequency paid
for one atop the other.
Through passages,

Ah but a memory.
(I am unafraid of french,)
It’s possible we could move in
together, being
characteristically pinched.
falling into that
particular abyss.
Flight as my dreams can,
in the features and the looks.

I am afraid that I’ll fall, matching true.
to make this seem
worth the while, in and not,
too beautiful a boy. Drowsily
I contemplate my own
quality, using words like Again & Again.

one salty song for spring

The cat bats at something I can't see. Joseph says cats bat at ghosts. It smiles an uncertain smile, but most of what I'd like to say hangs in the reflection of moon against a glasspane, something that is nonexistent on this darkest clouded night. The cat scratches at the door wanting to leave, and I feel proud. The particular moon, one undoubtedly crescentshaped though haven't seen, truly, on this last morning in march, the first of the shortest spellings. One unseen by me, for the mentioned darkness above, erasing any spatterings of stars or a little slip of moon, even.

In this particular bedroom, one particular for many reasons, I can always it seems see the march moon on an early predawn morning. Usually there's a bright fog piercing softly through the mottled glass of the bathroom. Tonight is a moonless night. Though maybe is just moonless to us still it's mine I can't see. I know its pending shape so can picture it beautifully in the mind.

An upward glance. Warm brown paths unmowed, unplucked. Growth unleashes but is walked upon; the gentle fronds part. A rustle of tufted tops. Tickling a shin, grazing an ankle. Pale orange sunset over a simple hill rounded. The brain a simple patter pitter, just a dust rock skipping sidewise from beneath a meandering foot. A spray in clouds of little dirts, tiny explosions laying soft in patternless waves. A print to blow away in a matter of seconds or months depending. Circumstantially skidding softly down a slope, a loping of hands and knees operating openly. A small gash, a twig on the river. A canal, a rope tied to a tree, a wig of black lichen blowing. A small checkered warbler making a moan from a nearby branch.

Contentedness abounds