Cash or

Man yelling about Gabriella. I gotta tell ya, he says. She replies crisply from an answering machine tape. Young, tasteless people spend money on band posters. The trees are green and evergreens stab at grays and browns and almost-blues. Things are - or at least seem - cleaner than usual.

Another draft of another too-long, too-meanderous poem. I listen to too much NPR.

The creation of shadow necessarily undermined the function of limitations.
-the power of deity.
-threaten the gods.
-process is everything.
Midnight believes she is saving people from themselves:


Something like a net of prohibitive energy,
as with any net, there are holes
more limited resources.
words may affect just about anything they can imagine,
only with very limited strength;
the hand ever at their neck.
Dead magic.
An acute and constant entropy;
a more remote and short lived affect every time;
an affect other than what was intended or assumed.
Really, these are just places damaged,
or breaking down in words.


As in a three-day festival,
There is the political discussion, though
it is important to consider who, and under what circumstances.
Silvered ravens.
Rather fucked off by the whole thing.
As one might predict,
ready to fight at a moments notice, which always creates tension, blah, blah.
Has a price.
caw, caw
deadly as all get out and
Dragged along by fond hates
sarcastic enough
a good enough actress
Who else?

It could be the architect
He has holed himself up in his ponder.

Is the presence of ravens a sign they are willing to discuss?
Expressing mostly concerns about trade.
Left needing.
There is a good deal of money to be made in weapons.
A good deal of nothing to be done.
About Boreal loam.



Nothing has changed on this front

A poem composed by blacking out words in a trashy romance/action novel

Filling her cup.
Not that I'm grateful
Should have offered his bed.
Sorry about that
A little drawn.
Why would someone want to skewer you?
What sort of shit
between her hands,
legs curling,
mouth went dry
between her thighs.
...Oh, she was talking again.
She feeds it,
tucks the fucking thing into bed at night.

Another Poem

Sorry
about the seemingly broken
refrigerator.
That is to say,
the succulent cold
in shining pieces
(hardly cinders)
lies
trembling, stupid,
not dangerous.

Allways: a draft

Sweat down neck.
Slick palms.
each step against;
abandoned;
clung to.
A fine dust
somewhere crept.
Tightening the howled
life.
A dog.
Three failed attempts
and he had
a black plastic bag;
a preference against
the wall; an empty
hallway greeted deep,
filthy.
Concrete stretched,
testing the unlocked,
dark paper.

1123 From Omaha

...And his wife was dying. Six days without a shower.

Maybe the one organ left in good condition. To take it.

Rumored Burials*:

1. Three individuals by the name of Boards
2. Two individuals by the name of Page
3. Possibly Phil S. Stein
4. The Sea, an enemy
* per research done by LeMar Ennemi

(They had been talking about donating her liver)

History: - not available

Maps: - not available*

(He must have knocked. Had to have gone inside.)

It was usually held up every week, and occasionally daily.

*Lizards have to carry water bags out here.

Buried in same lot as
(Made the water too hot intentionally. Libation. Cleansing.)

Done swallowed it.

The highway did/was not:

1. Crack and fracture as it rose.
2. Remind me of dry, flaking tree bark.
3. Or scar tissue.
4. Radiate heat.
5. Sweating.
6. Phlegethon.
7. Sleeping.

Buried in same lot as

Hear Pipe

Our poor Pud usually insisted that his name was neither an acronym nor a slang term for penis. There were times of course - playing his old flute, barefoot and shirtless in some alley, the issue having been raised by a stranger - when he would do just the opposite.

The hell kind of name is that?

Stands for Public Unity Development.

What kind of stupid...

And of course, it was back to the flute. His story, gasped through musical phrases that tottered between subdued and moribund, was always approximately the same. Was always given ethereal credence by the subtle grayness of his skin. Scrawny limbs. Salient paunch.

I reckon I's born out one a them yawning gutters. You know the ones. Don't make em like 'at anymore. That metal that turn green with all the rain. Faces, you know. Them new ones is just bars across the gutter, grates. Squared and ugly. Well, them old ones aint like 'at. They was made to be punished, to slurp up all the city's filth and bear it. Now, some 'em will talk to you, you catch 'em in the proper light. That there's how I got to be named this way. They all full of sympathy. Can't help it. So I took up this hear pipe.