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Wednesday, April 18, 2018

Nightbooks

Sometimes everything makes you irrepressibly
happy as the wind and the rain

sometimes and the rest of the time? What lasts longer
ice in the cold or ceramic in the heat?

Poetry is only the state of
not yet having all of the facts

or finding the happy materials smashed
by your own prior anger

riding gracefully into the poem
before the wars make anger obsolete

A simple proposition “Compared to what?”
on clay from which limitless tablets can be timelessly baked

pictures of words with edges
holding on to feelings like badges

True randomness would be one thing but this is just haphazard
My name is ________

like the number 7 and the number 47
weeks of alphabetical thoughts then weeks of mathematical ones

I aim for perfect moments of loafing but my idleness
is stubbornly imperfect

Eyes search a room
Electricity never stops

Look at it
through a microscope
its mind constantly changing

Should I love you
or trust you to the planets and the galaxies

and miss you forever ecstatically
in the glib way that blood flows

through you light passes through you while you think
over hot rocks and under waterfalls

like a ceremony celebrating coming of age
because being you must have been constantly renewed

and even if some feelings are morally or chemically different than they used to be
at least subjectively they feel the same

Do you know what I’m capable of
under your influence with your numbers, only more so

Can it be defined? in a dictionary?
in font too small to read? for eyes too small to read with?

Unfortunately, centurion, this body was never yours
these excesses of speed, size and color, noise and languorousness,

talking in your sleep except while you were awake
what were you saying?

Archeology
words graffitied on a natural bridge

X is Y— blecks is bligh—
All the ideas piled up into one of those cairns

marking out the stony path on the stony mountaintops
Someday, I'll learn

how to have other conversations
thermodynamically

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