came out

smthng i know
is_________wrong in me
it hasn't come______________back
in so lo ng what chased you away?
in so lo ng what chased you away
in so lo ng what chased you away
so____lo ng.
what chased you away is_______THAT

i 'm not ashamed
you under___________________stoold
but it (still)(st)ill chased________it came away

it went away from me
you went away from me
you done gone away from me
you come away from me
you came out of me

how heavy it felt once i had it_______in my hands
i had it in my hands &
it came out of me &
it went away from me

it came out of you____then
it came out of me

string

these words sprout out of my
sudden knowledge which regards
why Your god s have been lost
why its wives gushed hilarity
no matter which kind of abuse

all of faith's history can be
gathered in links to a cord
of the minds of mad men from
which sane people may suspend
themselves over the abyss in bunches


their eyes pointed up away
from the great feared chasm
maintaining their string so that like
curtains they could be lifted, not
weathered snap into that warm black
to which, i'll listen, when it calls me back

should

instead of allowing yet another
quiet moment i could. or. should
say that you began everything:

the crack of the whip. the
wind that keeps this propellor
in its spin.

you keep me going.

for Charles Olson, perhaps, who I think I may have known, maybe

i think i remember liking Charles Olson but
not as if we had been friends only that
dark inklers that make my pupils recognized
a brothered black in his curved angled lines
i can't remember a single word of his but
i think i remember liking Charles Olson, i
think he knew how to write like i do and
that is i don't and can't. or. couldn't. i think
that, maybe, and, perhaps, we are both boys
who stamp our letters in. we get reminded
then we write. we get reminded then we write.
maybe. Charles Olson once said to me, “
but that would be a lie. your name dropping.
our words are so thin that they slip through
slots in our slack pockets and collect in our socks

No entry.

What is

the old hand

speckled

on the shining wood?


she is the snow outside her window
the cold chest empty

new job. this way we will

it reflects flourescent long and heavy
carried it with blood into dirt

don't breathe too heavy don't

breathe

November 11, 1922 - April 11, 2007

There is no why.

i ache for your pancakes
how every thing about you
is so sunday morning
sickness--every cough is
so family-focused
while you sip a whole city
your early years lasted
so long that my seven six
sick year old self will suck
on them for long still
my mind relieved
still wishes it were 1993
and that you and i were
still lap-bound laughing
chocolate
glass and ice you
kept me in bread happy
then you coughed
i milo otis fixed
old radio blitzed
don't mirror portrait
family gather st. francis
nice to me sleeping

Saying that I treat my daughter like a dog
is unacceptable even if I treat my dog like a brother.