-Still, if one were to-

the painting

peter sees

that i

could paint

"but didn’t

you?” says 

mummy.

let be be finale of seem.
the only emperor is the emperor of ice cream.


-the emperor of ice cream,
wallace stevens

occhiolism

dictionaryofobscuresorrows:

n. the awareness of the smallness of your perspective, by which you couldn’t possibly draw any meaningful conclusions at all, about the world or the past or the complexities of culture, because although your life is an epic and unrepeatable anecdote, it still only has a sample size of one, and may end up being the control for a much wilder experiment happening in the next room.

never clever enough

the walls

                 the child’s mild suckle

as baffled as the barefoot flight

                  from the stomp and march of murder and her

little brother mayhem.

give the signal

when the coast is clear.

say then.

say when.

less hunger 

         than boredom

         puts           the blade

to the neck.

not sanguinary but

a certain sobriety.

                when the others looked away

                that’s when with

               wings pinned the show

               got on the road

and we nightwished

for blizzards, forgiveness 

a lightsome finality.

In Remembrance of Text.

she came to be happier than anybody else who was

living then.  It is easy to believe this thing.   She was

telling some one, who was loving every story that was

charming.  Some one who was living was almost always

listening.  Some one who was loving was almost always

listening.  That one who was loving was almost always 

listening.  That one who was loving was telling about 

being one then listening.  That one being loving was 

then telling stories having a beginning and a middle and

an ending.  That one was then one always completely 

listening.  Ada was then one and all her living then one

completely telling stories that were charming, completely

listening to stories that have a beginning and a middle and

an ending.  Trembling was all living, living was all loving,

some one was then the other one.  Certainly this one

was loving this Ada then.  And certainly Ada all her

living then was happier in living than any one else who

ever could, who was, who is, who ever will be living.

in remembrance of text.

these green sticky evenings

recall the old forests of illinois

and the firefly slaughter we

committed each shirtless 8:30pm 

to make our wooden swords bright for an hour.

and the battles between hoarse neighbors

and the mournful calls of a faraway mom

and our calloused heels soled with soot

and sleeps without showers,

exploring for hours,

and sweat pooling in our grooves

and our dream-sticky bodies.

In Remembrance of Text.

every horoscope 

now ruined by she

who shares my very

birthday, who shunned

though tongued

treacle-sweet

yours truly!

my sly consolation: 

prized position of

veiled    indefatigable    summerlong    starbummed 

enemy.

little brown finch stopped in on the ledge this morning little bread crust in its beak then it flew away.

mistakes were made the

tuesday we learned incidentally how

to turn our bird brain day dreams

to a thousand miles of sky burnt smithereens

"as far as i am concerned

                                         they are all engineers, all of them.”

     one thing starts

                           becomes some 

   other thing        we    

countenanced         not,   “a pity,”

                    little biscuit. keep clinging.

"we even flew a little."

in remembrance of text.

image

when i was 16 it

was always summer

always canary yellow terror

the horizon super green somehow bouquets  asway to illinois

the sears tower, a pale

aquamarine fingernail    

keyhole sized in daylight electric throne in the night     from the 

baseball diamonds plateau beyond the 

high school parking garage

the concrete heights

i once ran ten thousand times as punishment

for running faster than the others.

/

less june these days

less losses to the hypnosis of the greens

canary terror cooled to simple cowardice

lesser bullies but now all are plain mean

trains now

mother too far

to lend me her car,

just as far as june and summer sixteen.

in remembrance of text.

a n d  b u t  d o e s  r i g h t / w r o n g  e x i s t  i n  t h e  r e a l m  o f  p o r t r a y a l ?