Open the envelope at home or open it at the
Or open it at work. When you are on the cusp of such things
What is new is also the point of access, as though the reception
Could be differentiated by the mediation of a public, of a hand
That knows you, the postman – the sublimation of delivery, of a hand.
If you groan, it matters whether it is for profit, whether it is part of a
Great transformation of the modes of production like know-how, like
Common sense is a know-how, and support groans under the weight
Of the theoretical. A great transformation requires thinking about wages
But fatigue is less than theoretical, a matter of know-how and weight.
God engages with something third, a predicate. On the journey from Ithaca,
It’s hardly fair to say that “someone is on your side” whether you know that
To be the case or not. Time’s fungible map of belonging, a matter of
Narrative while also the leaching calcium, a distance in this geological
Chemical mass. An egg. A forum for the recently divorced.
Before there were spaces of belonging and the quest for recently diluted
Precedent, there was this micro-moon, a sliver of ricocheting time. As this is
In parentheses, we all know that speaking to your boss is part of a broader
Appeal to the local. The contemporary we harness is always the anguish of
The past. Braided, this antecedent of cyclical time, the messianic blinking out.
I would never haggle, but if need be the cranial support, credible witness might be no
More, no less than Planet of the Apes, a monumentality of the unassimilated object of
Professional discourse. Not that type of doctor, we might say. Not quite so monumental
As inauthentic dirt. Downloaded between authenticity and World Culture, a spring reconsidered
For its markers, sudden and insuperable revelation at once an image.
Harness it to a nightclub and pretend that tobacco offers a compelling vision of negotiated copy.
Is this touristy, or is it a presupposed reconstitution like airlifting a dog off a pyramid?
Who discusses these conveyances? I was offered 200 rubles for the pants I was wearing.
Something happens: it is two hours, it is refusal, it is a quart of oil and a jar of water. This
Is my initial leg. This is a pastel failure to flee the ordinary world.
There are limits to any given verse – a sort of halo that surrounds the work, it is said, we do.
Foremost is, then, the painted shadow of a silhouette. It dots the production of supply, it is said
As a portfolio. A grey discovery of writing as an R branded on the left shoulder, where, if they
Are caught beginning anew, they are to be executed without mercy. Consider the humble cap,
As in capital, caput, cabbage. Hence, the risk far outweighs, and the rain’s precipitant, too.
Return me to this egg. The passage beyond the Bridge of Hell having been liberated of all that
Had been stored in it. The sickness of tongues, the late spring orange in a fading sky, adherence
To a beauty that was the devil, and in a sense come to an end, deprived of the haste so tenderly
Sought in the gambler, in the dizzying eyelet, dizzying if not for a bizarre subtlety
Close beside two fellow passengers of a dream past that speaks its tender name.
Cattle, too, though counting retains a transom-like mystique, a man who could take any door
Right off its hinges, or else batter it down at a running start. Why, no. The scent of swept dust
Of inhaled aluminum in a gripping frisson of horror. With the rules of verisimilitude quickly
Fading, the alphabet merges with property that he had asked for as one prays for the cool
Light after a storm. Did you dream? I dreamt. I dreamt the looting of time.
Memory as a three-wheeled car ran tangential to the circle. And often shaded by the eucalyptus,
The poplars, the aspens. Neither inside nor outside but in the alternating and mouthless tongue
As testament to the slight strain of occasion, the dim search that backs downstage and, turning
Slowly reminds us that the latter is orality in that the latter never quite contains the negative but a
Heterogenous border, a riddle at whose door the branches are laid in fading silence.
Antecedent, a post-card, a shell in which the ecosystem convulses and what was hard to hear
Is suddenly audible in the naked silence of starvation. On the beach mostly
Where what we have is change that repels yesterday, magnetizing the hunger, a wasting and
Compression, the band of coloration, of size moving clockwise into a similar shore
Here and there milkweed, beech plum, salt marsh peeks through a thrum of waves.
Help us! This belies the fact that what is at stake is not sporting challenge but contractual
Language, the camera seeming to emerge from out of a solid wall, his oversized hands in
High key against her hair. Murder as slow agony middling and angry; our knife-throwing
Friend and his identification with a set-piece mantra concerning focus, and arithmetically
The thrum of waves with lightness. Conferred and sour within a white bowl after the prepping.
Light as from the marquee splits over a bankroll peeking out from the slim leather wallet.
Description has known fanciful representation to substitute for the effect of the real. Blowsy
Lime green, the old woman’s handbag, its large clasp undone, hanging just over the one knee
And into the negative space of the bus’s aisle. Unprepossessing, solemn in function to mimic
The tree’s carbuncle and its greying wasp’s nest tarnished by the browning leaves.
Constraint is a matter of an untimed given. Acting, like a lawn sign, to appropriate the future
Hanging a name on it, as realty, like a dulcimer is unexpectedly percussive. A white bowl
Despite its typology; an undoctored basis for control, the security apparatus unchanged by
Whatever catches in the sudden fall of a bulldozed home. And should it? The anticipated
Possession is signaled in retributive desire: enmity is ever after.
But we had spent weeks pursuing a proper noun. What he misses, coming to in the conical
Half-light, Fred or the company he kept. Avoidance, altogether evening outdressed by
Occasional ionic bombardment making for a misstep of repositioned focus. A friend?
He can hardly bend a coin, not least the insignia of a confessed stockbroker we had
Spent weeks with in the sulphureous surround, while the mirror’s fingers echoed shibboleth.