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.

ok, a poem a day for the month of april

after Duncan

come back
as if
made up

I is
not mine

but makes
what is

by delimit:
walls shadow

and that's how we know
where we are


I'm a box
of bones,

their shapes
imitations

of the way
words always squirm
inside words

so that they don't
mean what they mean. they blanket the
squirming things.

I remember--enfold--at freeze--bent grass
in wind. I own it, but don't
own I. That is

the first persimmon. O mensch. O my.