__________
Could
it be that poetry is a vacation? that the first christmas on earth, as the young French poet dreamed it, is the utopia of poetry land? that the nights of hunger and slavery when one puts pen to page, leg to stage, finger off keyboard, ten fingers counting blog, the ornament of space dropped away in the anti-work squads of love, its brigades of mercy, that work and vocation, career and the class desire,
peer into the night of the voweled abyss have terminated their shift, a passion for play the child word stammering , melted into the dew of its thought as our body dies, could it be this vacation of rent that every human breaths, longs for the open pasture of language, melting its snow
its caps like mountain tips of effort smirking at the world and its everyday business of chatter and blather. O blather me timbers in the shakedown ways 'n pray of life and death and you r body
which I love so much
You know
you know you know
Ive not seen not seen
not seen your body
of yours of yours
twenty years yet
love was a fire that crackled your bush
Simple seer of day and bear of love 's candle lit drag
its wake
Expecting nothing in the sigh before dawn
Poetry was a holiday. Not a thing to be pursued with grants and totems of desire and acceptance by the academy of its present. with some leader named Emily at our helm, we were
dawn breakers
and beaks at the bow-sprit of your thighs
I kissed your thighs this dawn
imaginary as they were
bound to be and be they were bound
locked around my head
wreath of desire
in the ships of helm
helm smith
and the rock and rollers remembering who you were
not some mighty general of a molar formation
some band of a fascist chief
some bastard carrying on kings , knaves
and sailors. I have nothing against sailors.
Make waves and trucks sigh
tonight is the gathering
gathering garner
yer staff
this distaff of lust
body board
trampoline dust
Milton's cave
the southern gales
mackaway Town
in
the thimble rouse
bird falled over
the knock down play
at the crack of 'dawn'
the cark of soothing
crackle barrel intent
. If poetry was a holiday where taxis smoothly stayed. I saw that wink
in your hand, I mean the wink in your blog it made my mouth water
at the drooling before time of time and its species the treble clef of nowhere some deterritorialized fish that escaped your lawn
just before this little bit of lip
that says your name
a thing hangs in the air
my word racked by the ruin of y
er bod
y
how
it kissed
sunday nights
sundering night
of two backed beast
your breast a mouth
to whisper a paint on
haul the word out
find the camber to make you sing
inside the wear been of
half man
of body stand (hand stands)
stems
portals flew wits
may flowers of carry on
deals
nickels dime
nickleodeon of what we could have
played
revenge for your absence
the love
not had
in the
verb before cluster's last hand
each time i held the melody
of your tension
it was a spring
was it black or next to prose that poetry woke the river to talk? was
it an award that bore its fate, cataracting by morning rise
the burial of hate?
was prose the doctor of your love, come my children made yours.
they were my kids inside your body born by him and the ruin of
flight your possesive noun a deterioration before
before
fore
a coarse melos
fay
in the fairy
truth
of truckers
and stage rammers
buskin boot mouthed by November
some stage you remembered by
if poetry was the knight across the awkward grave
listening
the listening post where spy men meet spy women
then it'd be the holiday you
always wanted
___
then it was the pray at stop
signs where
cats speak
and murders stay for a pause
so then it reeks
she said
no that was some
other noun
if poetry was the hold when the ship keel
.
then poetry would be the stage at your right and the night was a
shifter leaving blanks in the space
all your wears then would be
