is the mantle of my earth
So CI o EC o n o micStatus
elaborate elasIPOd dEl as tic drum gone stiff
whiff years its sound free
zing-ing waves cull-lulling our
ce-dar-shan Iliad tiers
number 24 images zona pellucida.
once they are written your
girdles are good sounding stiff
as the snapping of trunks in the falling of all of
our slaughtered remembering what we are pure.
1 - 2
1 - 2
1 - 1
3
into my arms, having walked in to hug
her Mother goodnight. I want to unfurl
yards and yards of white taffeta, a satin
train she craves.
Instead, her voice unleashes the unharnessed
peace, rain shower's practicing turning my face
up to her Father's Edelweiss from His memory.
come out. stand there.
stay. until discernment
recognizes someth
-ing
other than your spell
-ing
that ugly smile. Can you see
him at all? Do you see
he will die with or without you?
Do you see what you have become, split finite
noun star
-ing weird minutes to numbers
you know mean someth
-ing
to someone who is liv
-ing in another closet
of your head genesis
woman. come out.
what gene 6871, what years matter
in that calendar you imagine has
someth
-ing
two do
with you.
1, 1, 2, 2,
1, 1, 1, 3,
2, 2, 1, 1, 4,
1, 1, 4. 6. 4.
5. 5. (ah a! 2 n'ma y1793)
.8 .12 .8 (ah a! 1 j'may1793)
1822 Difference Engine
1612 mistaken Neptune
"There are few things in the world
that look so good as butter
on wheat bread," my daughter said.
I heard
that. That voice is real.
in
(Camellia's hedge are) taller
than
(their spiders legs all in a) row
over
(twenty-five or thirty years of) growing
from
(the ground. I) inspect
the
(limbs for nests, their birds) constant
dip
(furtive into) gloss
green
(or) spider
powdered
leaves
(hide the feathers and the) nests
I
(do not find for the) prickles
of
(my forked) feet
and
beak.
n talle
han row
fila del verg adentro
ROM in s pec
he consta n
IP gl os
r e en s pide
o w de re(d)
jerarquia de los aleros
prickle
FF EE
nd bea
NS NS con riferimento alla scrofa
sistemi il testo fisso spagnola
l'italiano
nests are
in our birds
hemorrhaged sphere,
God’s brain bundling
light and dark
patterns of electricity
until the moon runs
blood in the airless
Alzheimer’s healing
His memory, that We
are HIMSELF forever
good, forever kept
as GOD IS
remembering the walk
of His humanity—His
Betrothed—His lover, naked
in Beauty Provided Coven-
ant hill diligence,
exercise, food in harvest,
God’s example in every second,
FIRST.
8 July 2009 at 11:41pm
is my full smile, my full figure, my full plate, my red blood, my brown skin, my warm, warm, warm, deep loving.
The English Woman
is my narrow waist, my round abdomen, my small lip, my tall words, my kind smile, my measured portions, my courage, my unbending loyalty.
The Irish Woman
is my hell with it, my raucous laughter, my naughty humor, my dukes up for my family, my deft slip-you-a-drink or a fiver because you don't know you need it.
The French Woman
is my extravagant knowing I am everything I ever want to be and nothing like you, my signature my controlled savagery, my controlled sensuality, my scent the imagined splendor of every passionate bouquet that is the old woman I am becoming, more beautiful and longed for and loved and lived to be the entire self I am, this French Woman I am now.
The American Woman
is my discontent, speaking to herself the appreciation she knows must be greater than an election every four years, and a parting of ways, a parting of seas.
The African Woman
is my artist wandering, listening toward a society that is tumult, is wild pets, narrow escapes, impossible size and browns and greens and terrific pictures, my precocious eavesdropping to stories I do not want to escape they are so magnetic.
The English Woman
is back, plumping pillows while I type, and interjecting, "Who is your Chinese Woman, your Norwegian Woman, your German Woman? Who is your Canadian Woman? Yes. I am not all world, my blood the rain, but I know that it rains everywhere, so I will know everywhere soon enough.
5 July 2009 at 12:43pm
sweet brother,
slumber
our muses, slumber our holdings this
moment
while the flutes, while the flutes meander
in our sky.
5 July 2009 at 12:28pm
These will come
as my heart tips its capillaries
two-ward, One of Me Being Satisfied
with every moment that has been
with me being one Of
ours, hours, soft, barely passions
Of peace, but soft aware dressing
the shapely Now
of New years peacing ulu m
passions softly mine.
These will come, waiting
peaceful.
5 July 2009 at 12:20pm
was the cookie at the top
of my screen. Barely
able, I condense passions
2 remain in the waters of
peace.
I never know
what will come
from my fingers
on these keys,
cookies or music,
or a crick in the neck
of the Selves, waiting
for what isn't ever
to bee bowers,
my weight walking
dry, hot, and hap p y
all the same.
was the last time I demonstrated
I loved anything other
than defense?
Do you know?
Where did these padded
walls come from, unless you
put them there for me
to stay white and cancer free.
Where would I
get padded walls,
unless I had cancer already, and you didn't say?
have not grown
from thorns.
Thorns
thorns. T
horn S
melliferous tending
Gregor and Gregorian.