Friday, December 31, 2004

Sunny was trying to scrub out a stain, with her yolk-brush and her flowery hammer and her and her lingering scratcher and her tiring hands were easing the grease into a sunny day escaping.

Sunny was trying to scrub out a stain, with her Brillo blob and her rusted quilly scour-pad and her spray-bottle of caustic squirt, and her despairing hands were uncovering deeper-downs of the same deep mess, as if the mess she first attacked was a mere puny mess with a grown-up mess under it.

Parts of the mess would almost rub away but they would still be there, like a flower’s jealous memories


Thursday, December 30, 2004

Are those suffering or only present
Presences or given presents
Are they emerging from the earth
In the way an injury emerges

Will a blister hatch
Is it smooth
It makes me see the smudges
On the window I look through

a pearl earring enema?
To remember me by
Certain evidences
a sniff at

they are not really certain
Human beings leap
Ridges in the
dandruff snow the grease


Wednesday, December 29, 2004

sibyl above bed-head

He, She or It (using without being trimmed by these distinctions)
stepped off from the sacred saddle in a throng of flashbulb
gowning lights. The pink additives with their calculated flutter namelessness.
Ascending or Descending (using without being trimmed by these distinctions)
from the saddle to the throne. In his rinky-dink pajamas, Eric
flutters for dear life, like a banner captured by a lawless wind.
The lime additives surround the empty head of ornament flashbulb.
The deaf additives rip time like a vortex burping holes in time.
Eric tries to burp down Kotex moments of a simpleton Kodak.
Eric tries to believe burped holes as throng adjectives de-load.
As throng adjectives de-load and re-load in a Kotex throng heart burp.
There is a genre of poetry about “spots of time.” My illusions
will never surrender. I can remember things that never even
happened, with my mental powers, from the saddle gowned-up song.

the sibyl above the bed


Tuesday, December 28, 2004

the bed beneath the bed is scratch-and-sniff
smudges are alive words are disguised in smudge
like the black residues that fell on your car
coming from the general behavior therefore blameless
a blameless sign of life must be beautiful or else
if the source is poisoned, at least there are still
results we can wear on our histories like reward-wounds