100 lines about the author (Amber): alert! And The angel to Abraham On seeing the panorama of the Apollo 11 landing site Ars poetica Art Axe The Big Dipper The boar Boy on the bus Building Call me Cereal Cold wind Creation myth Dead man The Death Zone Death’s trumpet Dream Early Elegy for an alternate self epigraph Ex machina Exasperated Father Feeding the raven Finding the Lion Fire Look Hands A hard game Hardware How it happened How to read this Hymnal I am I think it’s you (but it’s not) I wanted to tell you something In bed Autocento of the breakfast table Initial conditions January Joke L’appel du vide The largest asteroid in the asteroid belt Last bastion Last passenger Leaf Leg Liking Things Listen Love as God Love Song Man The Moon is drowning The moon is gone and in its place a mirror The mountain Moving Sideways Something about all music being performances of 4’33“ in places where other bands happen to be playing No nothing Notes Nothing is ever over On formal poetry Options Ouroboros of Memory Paul Philosophy Phone Planks Litany for a plant Something about the nature of poetry and time Prelude Problems Proverbs Punch The purpose of dogs Question A real writer Reports Riptide of memory Ronald McDonald Rough gloves Sapling Seasonal affective disorder Sense of it Serengeti Shed The shipwright The Sixteenth Chapel Snow Let’s start with something simple Spittle The squirrel Stagnant Statements Stayed on the bus too long Stump Swansong Swan song Swear Table of contents Tapestry Telemarketer The night we met, I was out of my mind The sea and the beach The ocean overflows with camels Time looks up to the sky To Daniel Toilet Toothpaste Treatise Underwear Wallpaper We played those games too When I’m sorry I wash dishes Window Words and meaning Worse looking over Writing X-ray Yellow
+100 lines about the author (Amber): alert!
+And the angel, to Abraham, on seeing the panorama of the Apollo 11 landing site: “Ars poetica: art, an axe, the big dipper and the boar.
The boy on the bus is building. Call me Cereal or Cold Wind.”
Creation myth: dead man = the death zone =
Death’s trumpet. Dream early.
Elegy for an alternate self: an epigraph,
ex machina and exasperated; Father
feeding the raven, finding the lion, setting a fire.
Look: hands!
A hard game: hardware.
How it happened?
How to read this hymnal:
“I am.”
“I think it’s you (but it’s not).”
I wanted to tell you something in bed, the initial conditions
of January’s joke are L’appel du vide.
The largest asteroid in the asteroid belt is the last bastion, the
last passenger leaf, the leg liking things.
Listen: love as God is better
than a love song, man.
The moon is drowning.
The moon is gone and in its place: a mirror.
The mountain’s moving sideways,
something about all music being performances of 4′33″ in places where other bands happen to be playing.
Listen: no nothing, no notes.
Nothing is ever over.
On formal poetry, options:
an ouroboros of memory, Paul, philosophy,
a phone, planks. A litany for a plant.
Something about the nature of poetry and time:
prelude, problems, proverbs, punch, the purpose of dogs.
A question: if a real writer reports on
the riptide of memory, does Ronald McDonald wear
rough gloves or a sapling?
Seasonal affective disorder is part of the sense of it.
The serengeti is a shed.
The shipwright builds the sixteenth chapel in snow.
Let’s start with something simple:
spittle on the squirrel sitting stagnant.
Statements stayed on the bus too long.
A stump is not a swansong is not a swan song.
Swear the table of contents is a tapestry of
telemarketers. Swear that the night we met, I was out of my mind.
The sea and the beach, even the ocean overflows with camels.
Time looks up to the sky, to Daniel on the toilet
writing “Toothpaste,” a treatise on underwear and wallpaper.
When I’m sorry I wash dishes in the window, thinking about
words and meaning. I feel worse,
looking over at you, than when I’m writing an x-ray in yellow.