“On the grounding of a thing in air” (by LO)
If each structure is similar to the last how does anything become transient one big object surrounded by white noise
I swam in glacial springs my friend sat in a dappled bus stop near the mountain range high point of that summer was scrub grass
grazed by cattle inhabited by snakes all that yellow brush near White Sands National Monument the definitive place a person could get fresh trout for brunch
The great nostalgic sweep of the West and broken in hiking boots I write a book called Death in the Grand Canyon dedicated to my friend who killed himself many years later
“On the grounding of a thing in air” (by NL)
One fears the flow to color is fatal, just as is merited. As a cloudy glow crept up the highway, I glimpsed laughter—an overage girl— in that city of next-of-kin. Bitten by a color, we stayed there under the slow, pinkish trees
when evening's paintings darkened and were lit to make colors in her teeth, yellow with the accumulation of wine. All day they ambled, walking in harmony, a feeling all paintings had learned.
All colors, finally, must welcome all other colors but love casts down its source and target. The eyes received it like a note blue with vibrato, a document of that day. Read it out, its direst labels. It knows when the horizon was a long, gray hair and within it, glimmering, the sallow music of all past caresses.
Now in the sky a reddish expanse of hollows and edges flings out flocks of molecules, sentences in an accent no one has caught. We are/cannot be changed.
“You want to watch out that you’re not an asshole.” (by NL)
Last week, in this poem: "Transients" struck out, replaced with "white noise". "Inspector" struck out, replaced with
"friend". Slight modifications to angle, range. Tried (failed) to alter wind velocity, latitude, colour of grass. "Grass" struck out, replaced with "snakes".
"Snakes" trending but set to dip (revise?). On to metadata: Poem withdrawn from Desert Sands Review, Spade; simsubbed to: Circle Jerk, BRUNCH!, Culverin, [Fol][de][rol], A Common Place. Noticed debts (enjambment, concept) to Mr. Collins (!!). Deleted poem. Noticed Mr. Collins in BRUNCH! #37/38 (haiti double issue). Clicked "Restore this item".
West Coast Plaza for dinner (sea urchin, rice, girlfriend). Progress made re: book: Author pic updated (non-Facebook). Added epigram (3/4). Dedicated to mum, dad, Rilke. Replaced "Rilke" with "later Rilke", ha. "I am here to play bingo." Yes
The grounding of a thing in air (by LO)
merits traffic where Guerrero gets condensed, girl selects a dangerous angle, near tree trunks bordering scrappy parkland lit by the crosshatch of two streets' streetlamps. Wine on my tongue and hers, mine in excess, learned a little but anticipating misstep. Colors press into the sensory map, a much- noted impression just behind eyelids; horizon becomes any flat line it caresses. An impression made of morning's edges, we walk down to time the light, and our molecules know exactly when it turns. Caught among an electronic passageway system. Changed by its knowledge of our changing.
You Watch Out (by LO)
Poem hypothesizes need for - transition time White noise - like my high school motto With tiger poster to boot - we belong at an angle Between yes and - improbable relationship Of what was unspoken - before there were Snakes there were scales - slinked across the Desert of my heart's - discontent regrettably Common in the pursuit of - in the wake of In pre-conflict - high pressure front like one Item being tabulated against - my instinct Re: your gut reaction - I mention only Three-fourths of what I comprehend - that number With some adjustments - can be taken Yes can be taken - with a lake of salt
“This took my breath away and gave it back sweeter” (by NL)
condensed near parkland streetlamps. Excess of nerve a misstep as much as failure. Eyelid without an eye, its every tic an accusation against morning. Mid-morning our Roomba turns itself on, a system changing
“Hickman doesn’t let you breathe any molecules except sweaty Hickman’s” (by NL)
Time, maybe, for the wave to catch up with us, changing one motto into a slightly different motto (in the same serif font). Angle the textbox down a little. See if that helps with our relationship, such as it is—sometimes it turns out the obstacles were only garnishings we weren't really meant to eat. Reading the poem you sent me, I fell into a potentially prizewinning mood regrettably cut short by the arrival in the post of my Master Chief statuette. Two, you see, can write as stupidly as one. Just think: if there's no end to instincts, and one of those instincts is shame, and we can be the children of one instinct
only, then we are the children of that instinct. Our stout-waisted parent, who numbered all the things of the world, let out boyish woops upon learning that —taken seriously—there's nothing too small or foolish to exist: Salt, which lavishes its preservative properties on my stomach, wasting them; the dozen tiny hairs I pull out of my ear and lay on my arm like spiders' legs; my shortest recorded nap (four seconds); or all those breathless conversations about the kids. "Yesterday the children caught so many little crabs, and squished them. Yes, they thwacked them with a slipper to slow them down, and then they squished them." Christ.
My Breath (by LO)
Conduits break down in electronics class near the cafeteria; devoid of parks the district sleeps loudly, our street populated by outsider
animals getting on and off the train as the ex-newspaper (now pulp) suggests failure on the highway overpass. I get it. A tender feeling then reluctance
against telling anyone about it, but morning shortens ironic distance, making room for momentous noticing. A present you could give me would be the
systematic unblocking of some channel, to change the link between mind and speech.
His Molecules (by LO)
One thing I know just one. Font is not cast in wood drawers in lead. Our small drawers hang on their contents. Obstacle like a monster reading the New Yorker under the bed. Mood guided by punctuation scheme. Post a new reply ASAP you see my skin transparent as impressive garments. Those high fashion impresarios of nothingness. Instinct says visibility is similar to those who have been covered by stone. As they reappear we know they exist. Believe it. Or not believing anything Christlike still we're inclined to hibernate.
“All of us are going forward. None of us are going back.” (by NL)
Class tardiness as a kind of modesty and most Of my problems vanish. Consider how late Our parents were to their stations—practically Outsiders in the Justice League of the soul—yet that darling old
Train bore them off anyway. If something in this Suggests an unseemly insouciance, "think of the alternative": the angel Overpassing to find the sons already dead, the dead with some Reluctance dragged into poses they'd finished with. To conceive it is hard,
But who really wants an activity with end attained? No more Making excuses before the fact, nor after? How sweet, upon Noticing the ring condensed around your middle toe—close-up: THEBAL GUT GUTANI, in an Antiques Roadshow font— To put that band away and begin another Speech that trusts another for completion: