-Still, if one were to-

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 ? 

centuriespast:

Patient, Surrey County Lunatic Asylum

Hugh Welch Diamond 

(British, 1808–1886)

Date: 1850–58

Medium: Albumen silver print from glass negative

The Metropolitan Museum of Art

coursing once more.

heaped in brackish dread,

hung by gaunt wrists,

clinking gaudy faux-gold bracelets

let all still alive know

in shrill codes

how the end comes again

come monday.

In Remembrance of Text

decided there must be

           fireworks at my funeral-

morning glory at midnight upon

edging dunes of grief

     shall be

doused with dyed gun powders    with

higher powers      -though they

                     they won’t    they shant

throw  such  

        proceedings    for a common mendicant, 

i am afraid no

fellow sparklers.

  • Boyfran:haha you were so internet in high school
  • Boyfran:and still
  • Boyfran:so internet
  • Me:so internet
  • Me:because internet
  • Boyfran:so because
  • Me:much because
  • Me:very internet

magictransistor:

Joseph L. Bates. The Moon. 1860s.