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June 2005
 06.30.2005 |
It's the foggiest time of year, daylight confirms a critique of moodiness
A theory of heat conforms to the summer sun's parabola of travel
| 06.29.2005 |
Identity thieves broke into my dictionary — I've gotta cancel every word
How dare you misread formulate as fornicate
Writer's sleeping with the dictionary and her husband walks in . . .
Honey I can multitask and still be true to you . . .
| 06.28.2005 |
In the middle ring the lion swings its tail swishing and prowling
The monkey's making money, while the grinder grinds in 6/8 time
A ruckus frank and furious freaks the circus clown
Looking dapper, the Zipper & the Zapper chugged beer & wolfed dogs down
| 06.27.2005 |
Mind: lightning's thought-shaped, time the darkness in which thought forks
Hive: honey is sweet; pollination's a buzz; language is lightning; fiat lux
06.26.2005
Many moons melt away during meetings
When disk space is short the tough get going
| 06.25.2005 |
The limb-groan in wind is; our words assume secrets are
The papery petals of poppies are; and I am, and you are
| 06.24.2005 |
Though muffed and muted, a mouth may contain parables
A usually realistic narrative, e.g.: after sunset, expectations change
Muffled creaks of what, shifting inside these walls at night?
4:40 a.m.: pale dawn pours into dark, but waning of days has begun
Often I write as the children sleep dreaming of scores of pictures of absence
My heart from rhythm wanders in sleep, knocking out dreams that wake me
She took the wrong pill, which made a different difference
He dreamed the same dream, but the next day it was different
Someone messed with his head and he went to the dark side
She was stressed and half dead, so he lent her his star guide
| 06.23.2005 |
To the burden of all beginnings you bring your tautological optimism
To enter into existence and to enter life and to enter time are three things
The Father, the Son, and the Holy Ghost are three conclusions
In the beginning was the word — it was made to dwell among
Mother Earth, a fatalist, accommodates everything, needs no introduction
Things on earth coincide, details die out but abundance never wanes
| 06.22.2005 |
Aspens doing something in the wind — Robert Hass
Or, aspens doing something with the wind . . .
The problem of description is the problem of prepositions
In the wind; with the wind; for the wind; to the wind
A word is not the roof on a foundation. Words are for beginnings
It is the nobility of man's soul that he is insatiable — Thomas Traherne
| 06.21.2005 |
What does a mind secure? Song, tree, some words, a blue nightmare, death
Mind dances with itself, wind spins & eddies all night: names, years, the light
| 06.20.2005 |
Long days lap like waves on a summer lake
She wrote the line that keeps reclaiming time
You can't dream unless you've been awake
Not free yet, he must sleep, and then dream
Trees bear fruit, hours too, in life you must choose, but not between those
Hours vanish, you can't see the forest for the trees (and the private time)
| 06.19.2005 |
June, big, long June, and you're dead still, and this and that dead too
Isn't it different now? Yes. And isn't it more of the same too. . . yeah
| 06.18.2005 |
Sight: dark door bleached bone cayenne cloud
Sound: voice shatters glass as song crescendos
Clouds blown across blue 8 p.m. sky; jacaranda in bloom
Narrative goes only so far, arrest of the words stops time
Rain writes the unwritten — night is icumen in
Blink percussive rain and blot out blue summer
All the untimely rain keeps keeping the soul moist
Time, you are mine, I've got you right here, see
| 06.17.2005 |
Who says trousers anymore? The trousers of Thomas Traherne are in tatters
Icky, another no grownup should say, still, her ickylickysticky intrigues him
If you sit indoors a whole summer's day without trousers, who are you?
Wafted skunk scent's sexy first, then pungent, then I ask where the cat's at
An empty page is like a blue sky to which night will surely come
They held a test to find out what is most blue — you beat the sky
| 06.16.2005 |
Individualism bumps along the edge of uncertainty
There is no ordinary (call it unglamourized) time
We wanted it so bad, so bad — so bad
Summer night, heart beating (counting), beating (. . .), beating . . .
A particular place for no particular reason
The caption, more place holder than sign, read: dead
Glottal stops, tongue twisters, spit-flecked curses
Central self shuts down while exclamations shudder in flesh
| 06.15.2005 |
The days were bright and none of it fake
The pulp of light plumed out in paler fog
| 06.14.2005 |
Nobel narwhals know nothing knotty
Evil Elvis elbowed Euclid's eye
| 06.13.2005 |
A visible grammar of light impoverished invisible time
Silence invades song and surrounds it, home to memory
| 06.12.2005 |
Light has coaxed your soul from thinking's shadows
Slowly stunned: pulled under by a rising tide of light
Cunning coronas delete the dark and joy kisses the heart
Light's lips convulse the vault of noon, frescoed and solsticed
June light: little tunnels more stealth more earth more swelling
Ripen: light acts upon the flesh until the raw stone relents
Produce: the symmetry of summer is perched upon the shelves
Ripe fruit arrives in the aisles, apples replaced by peaches
Peaches are sticky and sweet
She offers him a cherry
| 06.11.2005 |
In trees he found and entered the shape of consciousness
Foregrounding grammar narrows the gap between speaker and spoken
The pulse makes passes in the eardrum while night piles up the silence
Alone or among, the Milky Way can terrorize whoever stares in the dark
Sleeping Puss has doffed his boots and purrs
The dogs are coifed, but the cats lick themselves
Joy is between, it slips in
Hands on shoulders steadies them
| 06.10.2005 |
"Bell not struck" is what he thought watching one duck circle the pond
White sound of a curled wave — heard as you ride — is the chill he felt
I wanted; you wanted; we want — what else wants like us?
Desire glides on ball bearings that no gods but us create
In a utopia of beasts the naked is ugly
The beauty of the nude is as old as ideals
The whisper campaign made reputations tumble
The tongue's mistake causes the breast to tremble
The pose breaks down and she loses her poise
The pile of clothes embarrassed the boys
Heaven: there all things flare
Afterlife: music, color & crumble
| 06.09.2005 |
Monotonous sound of surf caged his ears
A grayed, starry night pollocked his sight
What they thought as they listened to Bach
What we think when we listen to Beck
| 06.08.2005 |
It isn't going to be the way you thought
And it isn't going to be the way you think
La lune gets the tune started, by the time it's done we're crazy
Moon's a good keeper of memory, as it wanes lunacy waxes
| 06.07.2005 |
He couldn't understand, and she couldn't, nor could anyone, and so it went
Clouds are a pretty good match for reasons, so is water, rocks are another
The funny way it works: what appears on the tongue starts in the heart
Things made only of words? Actually, even matter is made out of words
Light spills, days grow; dry clay shrinks, so it goes
Your feet wander and your mind wanders, wandering in wandering
Little loopy lie led to large linguistic loss
More malice made many more mortally mistaken
| 06.06.2005 |
He abandoned good intention for a dream
He abandoned hope and walked out
06.05.2005
Milk-white and rolling buttery landscape, pressed on by fog
Mass of trees across the foggy field, first fat thought of the day
06.04.2005
So much gray and yellow, so much gold and silver, in coastal green
Heavy-headed grasses, extend up to sun, bend down in blasts of wind
06.03.2005
Seawind ripples grass on hills & fields like it ripples flags, like it ripples water
Wildflowers like lipsticks & buttons & pin-pricks & nipples . . . and flowers
06.02.2005
The natural condition of sight is to stare, of mind to move
The flow of words makes a visionary
Yarrow, vetch, lotus, lupine, poppy
Sparrow, finch, swallow, seagull, osprey
| 06.01.2005 |
Sentences vectoring like new roads into a place that has been inaccessible
He didn't understand, but he put his pants on one leg at a time anyway
Minimalist: he lists all the things all days always have in common
A list is a string of lights on an ocean pier at night, rumble underneath
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