ABSTRACT EPISTLE (OR: America and Elanor go for a ride)

The three bruckled faces turned up

during that fucking drive from Long Island, out

keeping a steady diet of daily specials

like the most large catch of the day drawn out with an hook.

All the more days in you. All battening down.

Please take my bag filled with tote bags, my cart

and Meatball empire. The rain can’t last long

with you in it. So the traffic likewise settles down

between us, bright red on the lcd, as milk-

mist tendrils over the deserted gridiron. The level sward

and the shadow of a vacant grandstand. Rise with us

as revealed lastweek ago. How Santa Claus’d he was,

it moved both my ears like dominoes hitting the shore.

Sales tax on the kisses would never be right so tear

down the handrawn ukelele, for we have always

been a peoples. Nor modestly

sized. To try to make a look while

Skype staggers a bit with your beloved’s pixels.

You’d like to seem more

but I don’t want you to worry about keeping the faith.

Take up face with the people you know

been killers once or twice. If it is real

it has been effaced— destroyed by the errant hand of a servant

and a large cup of coffee. What seemed so stable

will be made again as I recall

most everything as you,

as I ask of you to keep close,

then say you love me more than you can.

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I never thought it might be illegal.

Keep your shirt from touching

your damp back; no one needs to know

you sweat while dancing but the truth is

like a flying kite,

tugging infrequently. A view that we cannot understand

except through jingling didactic simile.

A line of people wave at the fog-

packed panorama window at Einhoven.

I just would like it if you kept calmer track.

How and why do you still care?

Our southern diplomats manifest of right talk

and I yearn to hear as good

as talk is

here. I write to you lines at a time,

as I dress, between each article of clothing.

I am on my way. How much restraint

is your content under if you bear

to hazard the guessing? Oh Lord,

I’ll be here, all weak. The hum you hear is how you know

I’m planning to get some work done. Is there any

situation would you prefer aside from the sight of

terrible things for which you feel vaguely

responsible. I feel well. I do want to keep coming back

as sacred, to the old domain. A quick peep in

on how the body comes into the text. Then guess

correctly which part tanks when you drink

milk too rapidly. Keeping two fingers to your temple

I wait, as you sleep, thus

discomfited. I am there when you awake,

but I can’t tell white girls apart. 

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apron/hate him

It rhymed in the car, when you tried harder.
Which eye do I contact?
How close are we when I want
to read? I volunteer most things
I think about, though not
in a row. Had you heard the song
of the days when SHIFT was locked?

This love I keep will be
so revealed to me
if I keep staring at
stereo equipement
blaring on its feet
at my touch. Which orator is clearer?
It rhymes if you sing it and
keep the beat better.

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Lathe of the Creator

How many car accidents ought you survive?
You approach the counter, all
that remains in
the bank behind blood vessels stopped

up with stolen toilet paper, the soft expanse
like skin to get past. The brain’s white film—
you can wipe it off but not off your hands
or faucet. Get at me soon; say “Hello!” for once

in your eyes. The coffee stammers on the stovetop.
We had not thought the path would still be flooded
when the rain stopped while we were talking.
“See it seep

out the crack in the mug?” A finedrawn scalding
sticks my arm, the veined scape to mouth
five petals out for sun, drinking
where it can reach. The track of orbit’s fancy:

an odd look
strung between the buildings
with two screw-rings in the sill, some length of nylon
bracing bricks through the underframe.

We are making believe America, always making where
is there to start. But you approach, ask:
“What is it you can tell it from?
How badly would you like it to matter? I have

a sentimental attachment to my mausoleum. Can they help?
You’ll think of them
dying often.
So how chosen do you feel? Soooo

idiosyncratic, we breathe in
in the manner proper to one. My envelope and then,
the gasbag of an aerostat itself. How unthinkable you are.
You will not buy out of the system we

are all busy thinking about how to-
gether we all are. I’ll wait
for odds, sink costs in gulleys. The bridges
get fixed, fall out of memory on

one side of which we drop distinctive twigs
to watch to the other, coughing up fog.
It’s the largest deal in history.
Now people live for decades.

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Confluence of Great Relevance

Only convulsions most sure of themselves

can register as pulse. We were not all ready

for this recent spate of tears.

Hold me as you would a grape,

the important part lightly, as we

have so accorded

Our Fathers a profile

 generous to the one mass

 beneath God's aviators. I only wish

to be weeningly contemporary.

To become happy and surpass,

--oh! but I was happy once before

and can remember it whenever.

Steady with your watch:

it’s a hard turn. Though we know

exactly where our driveway is,

signs say "This is not a road."

He has brought out the whole of his typos,

a magisterial statement of the times

as they can, and the Day folds

so much into itself, Night arriving after

to gather the bindle prepared for it.

We will start walking

come promise of stopping.

This poem looks at focus, groups,

loose meaning, and takes a bath

in the ice where it slipped.

Soon it will all be nouns

and I a concrete angel’s son. 

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