Monday, March 3, 2014

drafts worksheets

The red-laden nude of no vows
will not resurrect

Half ugghost Unghostly as

Stuck Stout

Aghast with desire / Fested with desire / Fetid

Ghostlike with lukewarm moist

anent attent appoint aroit alloin aloin

affright affix


I want to commission a portrait of you
but I have no money and don't know
any painters to do it for free. I don't
want the portrait for myself, no, it would
go to you. I guess I'd like it if you thought
of me each time you looked at it but
probably after a while you would forget
the circumstances of its installment
and only glance at it from time to time
as if it had been there always, an old
heirloom or less, a thing kept not for
any memories it stirs but simply because
it has no practical use and therefore
woud take too much thought to throw away,
too much effort. If it's successful, that is—
And though I have crammed everything
into this portrait which does not exist,
it remains unsatiated, stays compromise.
A thousand campaigns of insightful rummage
cannot glut it, satisfy its imperial essence,
remote ethereal framing. I crave its emptiness,
never-to-be-filledness. It blinks at me,
idol of smithereens, filled with shadow-hush.
Spacial justice, harmonic weight, pinned dream.



Mysterious measurements left the house
so empty that all the other houses
have been permitted to pervade it.

Only compared to the sniffing of a dog
trapped in a cupboard, your curiosity
will never deepen to desperation still.

Like a bus bound for crosses laid church-wise
over fallow parents, you barter-gather a land
bladderspasm sculpture has bared before.

You warm your hands at your feet. A swarm
of central materials comes to harm you.
Face to face, god what imperatives of glove.

T-shirt worn backwards to appease mirrors
with a logo/slogan whose moral is familiar
if we could somehow get in there to read it.



Needing martyrdom to live, I multiply
the papyrus duplicity of my hero—
duplicity is my hero—that double.

Outside the rain pours all fours
the fields that spread like search
patterns but find only more of us.

Depictions. We might atone by
using schoolmates for our self-portraits,
but otherwise remain sole. Simplifying

is the word I need here in the normal
beep-sense of its daily use, a warning-voice
evident as tatters. Can you remove

enough details from your life to
make it immune to biography.
All the words skipped by readers

make a better picture of one's
own picture. The problem of
the empirical—
the "crumbs of raisinbread in the coat
pocket," to quote Benn, the coat itself—

are unsolvable except through love of
the contingent, meaning the sacrificible,
the stuff you can easily throw away—

That's why the grounds out there are
surface of earth deep, why each of its borders
pretends to be elsewhere. Pretense is

the premise of the hero always required
to regard his origins as timeless. As
elsewhere. Distant as abandoned rooms

that narrate their cobwebs, since time
causes us to stride centerstage and gawk
multitude-timeless at engravings passed

among the lucky audience that thrives
by dispensing shares of continuity
which never yield enough for leftovers—

Everything left out of the text is always
too legible, the expository details
lacking which the reader is forced to

hold the page wedged in both hands
trying to anchor its disparities by spread
tactics, the way amid raindrops we hold up

our inbetweenities with a net of lollipops
[the distance rescued from whitewash
lone survivors of the commonground

Equidistant family trees have stranded me
Nomad the less
To obtain a common addled perspective
Nevertheless it is necessary
In the valley 3 wisemen mutilate their camouflage or replace it with studies of how the wind sugars their footprints
with dopeduds
or soapsuds
snowing on its cloth
the miracle of salt reduced to a condiment
to spice the
they sneak a tootsieroll up under the statue's petticoats
deigning the closeup
to complete its kiss,




My testicles have divorced, but continue to share the same lodging.
If the scrotum is a house, does that make the penis a chimney.
The penis if sharper could cut the scrotum in two to resolve this rental problem.


I entered the contest unaware
the prize was a hundred
thousand guitars whose wood
fed the fireplace but the strings were

a problem: what to do with them?
they wouldn't burn: the flames
left their no-color the same. What
color are guitar strings anyway?


high over the event
how the cliff laughs
at its abyss's devotion/hangdog attentiveness

some birds drop worms
on my hat's brim
instead of blossoms

Sure Donald Trump in penthouse plush enthroned
Is happy, with his lovely wives and kids—
And Jorie Graham bent upon the grids
That stretch her page beyond those margins known
To minor sophs like me: or Sharon Stone
[ ]

names never sound the ground
they fathom home
or proclaim they've conquered
the slightest
flag planted
to confound the soil[ ]


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