100 lines about the author, Case Duckworth (née 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.
Instrument a collage.”

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-on poetry!
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—
I want to say 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 loves, better
than a love song, man. This is
a manifesto.

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,
phones, or planks. A litany for a plant.

Something about the nature
of poetry and time: prelude, problems, proverbs,
some peaches. Punch is 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.
Something about my tenure as a bear. 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.
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.

We played those games too.

When I’m sorry I wash dishes in the window, walking
in the rain, thinking about what we are made of: words and meaning, irritably reaching after reason. I feel worse,
looking over at you, than when I’m writing
an x-ray in yellow.