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.

We played those games too.

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.