Hart Crane

No stream of greater love advancing now
Than, singing, this mortality alone
Through clay aflow immortally to you.
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NaPoWriMo 8

The Allegory of the Email
for Sarah F

We watch eggs break—bones
picked out from several others.
In an empty cable, next to a 
wall in shadow, so many theaters
of voice converge, a shade of 
gray brought forward. Charlotte—
the customer—her heart moves 
slow
	as water edges against her.

Her hair is weather patterns—
a spark pulling thru. Her hours are 
paint, William Blake, shark penises
—under the wall we sit listening 
slowly to paws tap glass.

Below, the town withers, twines
its ropey recession around & around.

NaPoWriMo 5

after Rosemarie Waldrop reading, UMaine Orono

 		why is my skin
		all over the place 

a pale connection
of limbs / in webs 
/
things burnt as food 

	look into some
	computers being 
	/
	monstrous lenses 

just wait it 
		out 

shake your head
to nod please 
to the feeling in keys
squatter's of language 
/
a mighty fine wind 

	gingerly monetized 
	& left in a ditch 
	by a highway
	which cuts thru 
	a wood 

flowering with 
		  loose names

NaPoWriMo 2

[NB: I now remember why I quit using WordPress, it is damn near impossible to get your formatting right. So FYI this is not how the poem should actually look.]

after the correspondence of Zukofsky & Pound

 that and 

o / and  / after all / carry with them all the baggage

		she only	 interprets 
	refutes there is a lot of money policy 
		abducted Hades / flowers fell from her lap
that she is abducted in ceaseless experimentation 
between the beetle and the idyll pastoral 

	[philosopher] in parallax / in view of others 
		too set in motion from idleness  
	playing with the French reception
vanguards of electric speaking 

in theory anything goes into 80 flowers 
	and [old poet] rejects a leaden winter
	
	driving torpid boatloads
to rejection of natures
	object over the is not / is known 
fugue of lungs to driven snow  
		hardly reassuring images
	
	weeds pushing 
	up in places   
	deafened by 
	credo and by 
	melodic vegetables 

nostalgia: 
		fake flower
	“make it [money]”  

NaPoWriMo 1

after Stephanie Young

she / likened to be grand 
	so too she / diddled to influence 

over another broken-faced river 
to be programed with an image 

	possible to write it with 
	only to know how the pen marks 

yes / us / yes / in us image
speaks of cruel downloads 

	labeled to stacks of glass 
	to strangled tables or rows 
	of how we barely eager 
	to be hay-blown 

ummm / beastly ganders flying 
making annoying noises 
all these people with mouth / always
half the bad feelings in water 
unable to be listened to 
and / yet / also over cinched 

	someone else in tyranny in
	a room / divides in a room 
	another vocal tone toyed with 

so various carrion in legions 
cleans up the brain / the brain 
cleaned magnificent with school
“the blue crayon of misery” 
stuck in our organs 

	the question: 
	do people move like money
	moves through rooms in 
	houses / broken vessel moving
	through an apartment wall 
	which weeps through the 
	airport hall bleached white 
	the bleach feeling its line / feeling
	its quality of line / depth / gaslight 

the tub /hangs / hung / feels itself 
masturbated / strangled 
and left out to forced air / to all
circular moving in old parts 
of cities that were never young 

	will masculine things go to movies
	or differently / will lethargy wear out

NaPoWriMo 0

31 March 2011

 every martyr is the jungle 
immune to its dollar’s itch 
casting weather systems forth 

into economic winter / dystopian / godless 

	eternal debtors prison in brambles 
	gold light touching endless kings 
		
		& mangled folks caught under their trailers 
		fake orgasms in front of TVs
		dressed like commercials 

*

snow can be mashed like 
it waters their hard skin 

	pugilism means fighting dummy 

		endless 
		rows
		of pines 
		caught doing
		nothing

	breath helps dilute 
	how filaments rust under waves 
	terribly stealing heat from sleep 

standing like you’re fighting
standing like loose teeth in rows
	or breath in the form of a face
	leaving the body empty 
the phone stealing the breath 
& for some the body 

	the old transom affixed in rain 
	I am still young but cannot feel it