there is
not purpose
without work
not a pause
not a color
but a category
or a range
this is
not a conversation
not a resident
but a tourist
not titled
without content
it is
not a conversion
without a pause
this is work
poems (complete)
scraps (incomplete)
notes (short)
NPWM11 (hell)
1:11 AM EST (misc)
run. zero (gradient)
• Askthere is
not purpose
without work
not a pause
not a color
but a category
or a range
this is
not a conversation
not a resident
but a tourist
not titled
without content
it is
not a conversion
without a pause
this is work
spent too long in the dust
the dead grass and dry wood
stood out in the drought
and prayed for a burning bush
it is too much like mud
swimming in quicksand
seeing in fog or
drying in dense rain
it is too thick a mix
of matter and liquid
not enough of one to stand
or the other to drown
—
a ledger so attractively filled
and completed wither every
detailed transaction in ink
to spit at the foot of what
had deemed it impossible
to find it read by the end
an attractively filled ledger
counted by the hands of what
would not offer even consolation
as all but the ledger is gone
—
“this is not a good way to end the day”
we are fragile and temporary
a limited range
preserving perceptual integrity
“the sound of the wind on the day I was born”
for tempo, pitch, and timbre
tone, texture, frequency, or rhythm
for the later choice of silence
“this town’s got a bad smell, god damn”
do not kill or harm
do not steal
do not bore
do not
or lie
more doe-eyed perversion
wizened and candied bullshit
the silence of three verses
like these the horizon
the writing argues otherwise
as your eyes bounce
between something that bores you
and something you don’t want to see
ripple and swift
man and beast
stageprops
and deadweight
chaos and void
muscle and bone
go with god
and come back
a savage ground
inevitable
sunden
brief
stop me
if you’ve
heard this one
before
as though
there but for
the grace of god
go I
I would rather fly
off in one long path
seeking sight or substance
drifting at fingertips
noting all about me
nothing worth narrating
a river of noise now
a mountain of sound
the efforts of those
more able than I
shore to shore
or coast to coast
what matters is the middle
land or sea or both
the machinery of the sky
to hold a direction and motion
the general tendency of things
with a mind toward any center
land where land matters most
something draws you away
something occupies your time
something slowly tapers off
it revolves
like a tongue
shot straight
like a prize
day after day
keep listening
like driftwood
righted