“Where is it?” “In this mist.”
I buy a few months. I try to behave.
Everyone will get one.
Tomorrow. They are tomorrow’s apples,
And they are sweet.
Drawn from coroner’s inquests and newspaper reports from England between the 1770 and 1920 — very much in the spirit of Charles Reznikoff, nothing invented.
The basement has always depressed us.
Injured bone. Blynken and Nod.
Visor your irises, handle with tongs.
We all think the Mandate of Heaven belongs
To him who gets-away-with.
Study death. Learn it by heart.
Following to the rules of spelling
Spell it together
like commonwealth or toadflax.
Do not split it
among the dead.
The wolf prowls the hills, kills what it kills.
…the black lead of his carpenter’s pencil has been pressed into the paper with tremendous force, far exceeding the demands of the form or the requirements of the shading in that precinct of the image…
That was the day Corydon became Corydon.
It is a facsimile. It is facial angle: European woman. It is stomach simple, similar to a box. It is on either side of inside. It is grapple. It is extracted from lignite and peat. It is worn by women. It is whether with gloves, a moveable roof. It is concerned with whalebone. It is a […]
I don’t know how I found you—like red dots spread across lines, pages before I noticed I read them as if I read them—like when turns of plot arise in shows I watch while thinking how I thought them there—
this is the hour of the small ear & the sea’s all a case of minds. the splotched ginkgo leaves attest nothing more than dogshat sidewalks.
An aristocratic nature does not like to be constrained
to the fewest syllables. His subjects encompassed
gods and men and horses, all victorious.
There is not not anything true here; there is not no thought
whose single attention might burn as the day burns, holding
in flame and in fury to longing, or stuck to the nub
of some one refusal, some stubborn remainder of thought.
My new asshole’s official candy
is cola-flavored, fish-shaped.