Much I marvelled this ungainly fowl to hear discourse so plainly, Though its answer little meaning—little relevancy bore; For we cannot help agreeing that no living human being Ever yet was blessed with seeing bird above his chamber door—
How long since war first broke out vexing the moment, the tipping point deux trous rouges au côté droit was it ten thousand years before shouting turned into bombings deux trous rouges au côté droit deliberate bloodshed that repeated walks of anguish for the rest of time deux trous rouges au côté droit the real rage of being human going to the village well for water deux trous rouges au côté droit the sudden soldiers of sharp death and then the ditches filled with rain?
Every time you ask about the shape of an ocean I should bring you two bags of ocean water. This is ocean's shape, like a pair of eyes, or the shape of ocean that eyes have seen. You touch them, as if wiping away two burning tears, as tears are the ocean’s shape, too, the clarity springing from the same deep soul. Putting the bags together will not make the ocean wider. They are still fresh, as if two non-fish will soon swim out. You sprinkle the water to the sand of flour, the bread, also, is the shape of the ocean. Before you slice it with a sharp sail it leaves, like a departing boat. The plastic bags left on the table also have the ocean's shape, flat with tides retreating from the beaches. When the real tide goes away there’s salt left, shaped as the ocean too. You don't believe? I should bring you a bag of water and a bag of sand, the shape of ocean. You affirm, you deny; then you non-affirm, and non-deny? Go on and try out yourself, as this is your shape too. But you say “I’m only the image of myself.”
along the path above the donkeys past a door open, a door shut and a strong smell of wood and cigarettes ends where music helps white marguerites cut through the masonry.
Dark for words with a clicking wren a yellow tit and over the clover a shovel and a rustle of grain. He's training calves with shouts and food to follow him to another field before the second bell.
Broom loops over the buttercups. These names give birth to cones and needles, ferns with mini-sacs of pollen attached. It only takes one shot of spittle on green for my brother to explain the sexual life of the forest and honeybees.
Simon says he would like to live alone in a cottage with a garden, no humans, no obligations. Solitary I prefer a pod while he likes hives. We confess we both wear armor outside our habitats.
Water was our first armor before our skin. Then came the bristle of sunshine. And a thickening of blood into oil or syrup in the lower veins.
I hate the thistledown covering my prototype now interior layer cowering at power or shout, but can laugh with the one who has sap under his skin pouring the bucket the hand is carrying.
Brother, help me find an animal who will rescue me from sharp delirium of fear beyond armor and my friends the birds by an open window: to be clear would be wonderful. A sigh without the ghostly gasps that accompany a certain voice. Still I still do desire more of the kind no one can see or hear. Not that second, rasping breath of triumph. Find me instead more like the breathy Saint Bernard. But a little dog A cask of brandy hanging at his neck
The farthest star is moving flowers strangely disappear dans les champs de l'observation le hasard ne favorise que les esprits préparés it is well that we work the fields we've looked closely at small things a little dog with its tongue out the beggar with her hand out a sick man with his dick out no prize for guessing wrong risk sleeps upon the plains
In that blue corner lies an exception A pretty brief rose and a brief squirrel But not just any corner of forgotten dust Never to be found again, nor just any squirrel Bushy-tailed, eyes gleaming, chewing nuts Is this a containment of a natural situation? Ah, but still more a box than a wrecked bed Though less than a coffin (though much more) It’s my old collection of lambent red, I speak Of those years together, of all the time it took To reassemble me, and when she saw it.
which is always deniable, since in my silence, which you question, is only a landscape of water, old trees and a few irresolute birds. The weather is also inconstant. Sometimes the light is golden, the leaves unseasonable. And sometimes the ice is red, and the moon hangs over it, peeled, like a chinese fruit. I am sorry not to be more articulate. When I try, the words turn ugly as rats and disorder everything, I cannot be quiet, I want so much to be quiet and loving. If only you wanted that. My sharpest thoughts wait like assassins always in the dry wheat. They chat and grin. Perhaps you should talk to them?
Lights out for the Territory one day (you know it's coming) speaking with snakes as he crosses the riverbank, and shakes the grass and watches how the horizon moves
Carries a heavy old pack, a G.I. poncho impermeable enough, and clothes around a single book that keeps changing its words the poetry of the world busy in a storm, cars passing him by, sometimes the driver honks
Direction suggests itself in wind the wind is directed by hope, which could have been indicated by love, if it hadn’t just started to piss down, if he hadn’t just seen a bolt of lightning explode a tree
After a while he starts laughing hard with what has to be a certain divinity, gods just as wet and cold as he is, the Territory receding and succeeding till the gray sun rises and when he rounds the bend you’re waiting.
One look at her publicity photo and you'd think that butter wouldn't melt in her mouth. Then you might study her eyes, her nose, her mouth and her chin. Ignore the illusion. Here the great Peggy Lee interprets a Leiber and Stoller song, "If that's all there is, my friends, then let's keep dancing, break out the booze and have a ball..."
I drink by myself just like you when this wind blows as it does in the delta where a lost hearing aid can be taken for a grub worm when the black constellations make you swim backwards in circles of blood stableboys ruin their hands for a while and a man none of us can do without breaks his neck jumping over some hill chasing the fox of a half-pint and a fine-blooded horse is put out of its misery even the young sisters of the boys we run with we would give our fingers to touch them again but this war seeps back into us little insecticide and the white cricket of those days drags itself off the hook there are no more fish there is no more bait the rivers are formed by the tears of sports fans we try to pour a trail of salt as if making a long fuse with a gunpowder keg we try to swim away from the gym like slugs with gills the girls from the other school step off the bus the clouds are weighed in at the gin there is a pattern to all this like a weave of a skirt we all go crazy from looking
Over The Mountains, Blow! for Philip Levine "Nor all your Tears wash out a Word of it." from The Rubaiyat of Omar Khayyam Charlie Parker, Bird, a cautious bird though he was a man, with a tail of music
It is sixty years away. The updraught here waiting for more filler, killer of time...
“…they later wrote, all that rising passion a footnote to others,” wrote Philip Levine
(I wouldn’t feel bad either. A better man than me walked him up the stairs, pulled off his boots)
That’s the problem. Rise, to hear it magnificent then come back down, to find you can't play it
Lover Man, where did you go
high as an Asian goose?
The others bang their pots and pans to make sure some birds will never land
Certain flights will have nervous captains and instruments lie at the bottom of the sea After the Dial recordings and the gigs, Bird took his few dollars and didn't fly to NYC (Probably a more dangerous place to score but California had sunshine and oranges)
I lay me down, this could be my last one too I would also have a memory more than a dream A seagull decides it wanders off the sand then the road decides it lands in feathers.