headers and footers
structure abled rods
every kind of tool &
hardening of arteries
calibrator of change

physiology seeks
foundation garments

not

strictly discipline

but

its own fear to hold on
to in light of the light

that's why emotion troubles
the interior vasculum

it sluffs off

to bethlehem that old

grouch i mean touché
to you old man you yeah

the habits of escape do
turn sour

she stops to visit herself before bed. there are allusions she dropped along the way. what can you find out by picking through the trash. there are 4 dimes resting on each other like fallen dominoes. the headache diminishes with an illusion of surcease. chartreuse post-its and floppy disks. mind your manners. say nothing. say little. it's late. see how the flesh carries its traces hidden in cellular chambers. tiny adjustments all day long, and in the night the body, the meat diary, remembers certain conversations.

black cats
and black
hats aside

i'm trying
to understand
this thing

called

superstition:

rituals

that keep

fear at

a distance

uncertainty
has been my

constant

and only
companion

always will be

no foundation

no ground

never will be

she irrigates
her eyes not
enough tears

said the opthamo
logist reading
the dribbles

one

by

one

not

enough

time

not

enough

rain

let us return to the problem of the missing. in every case and for every individual it is different. for example, there are the missing sequences. a series of steps on the road to life that are somehow bypassed. we may replace them with markers called "demons" or "space." it was soon after breakfast and the light was failing; i remember that. the computer provides a convenient container for such markers. in the absence of stimuli the screen seems luminous and sexy. it may also be that the brain cells have given in to previous remembrances, nostalgia, madness. or simply, it followed a set of tracks into the distance. it seems perfectly logical on the one hand, but there is an other who watches it all slip by without comment.

I barely know what I'm writing; it's true. Something comes out of "reality." Some letters; something is missing, and we know it. The sound of that engine is indifferent to humans, like a dog nosing garbage. Aching for some taste of something. Fat and the heat it generates. Beuys understood this. Or the assemblage and movement of parts. What might be fashioned from it? Still the old bird keeps trilling. Mimicking the bird next door. Mimicking, in fact, the door. Something opening and closing on squeaky hinges. Nothing is new, or should be.

I am with you, uncertainty, or walking beside you. Or walking a few yards ahead. I don't even want to know how the air feels. And then I do. There is the understanding of horror, while above a few clouds barely move. Down below there's a chill wind, and I think it predicts my downfall; I think it's all about me. We don't give up winter easily. Today there were four or five hummingbirds in the nectar patch. Some sweetness to gather to a ruby throat. This is uncertain too. Your thrumming, playing the air. It might be spring. I lag behind; you can lead the way. I wish you would lead the way.

There has been rain for many
Days. The mess on my table

Awaits me. There was so much
Water the car began to slide

(Three times sideways) across
The highway. Letters, messages.

A page or two to edit. Tired
Eyes. The sound I swear of a sand

Piper from my front yard
I could sleep for days don't

You know. Occasionally I
Consider the possibility of

Becoming a nun. Purely escapist
Drivel. So I won't have to

Witness the eventual dying
Off of friendships and loves

No that I can take it's what
It does, something to your

Skin. My history tattooed
All moments inescapable. Even

This moment I want to write
On and on like an addict

Correct the mistakes, burn
The ink out of my pores.