Sunday, April 05, 2009

The sexual skeleton is cloyingly at wait
on the divan of darkly vandalized love.

A tarpaulin seen from two irreconcilable angles
can only have died in its sleep, too much on sale.

Kept printing out JAZZ MONKEY from the white ticker
tape machine erasing moss from a midget, page 15, raw cheat
pump deft
geisha chic
crop gran
it ick
lops side
sicle donor
hot butt
on invest
I equate it with great deeds
to put walnuts on the skin
of one's victims. She bangs an
egg against the bill of sale,
the boards that have replaced
Citizen Three with panel flips.

I'm trying to read a book of poems each day. Many, but not all, are short. Today's is Beverly Dahlen's A Reading: Spicer and 18 Sonnets. Many of my daily poems will be in some sense "imitations" of the day's reading. I don't see how I could imitate Dahlen without taking decades to do so. This one is closer to Bruce Andrews, I think.

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