from click click

vegetal evil
fears no perdition
no eared exit
to be illumined
from my brow
the many cares
of outer scoop
the weather scoop
against the pot-green weathering
those things groomed
to be eaten for solace
to eat the vegetals
the scoop is on the water
it can argue the kind of consolation
my wits daily feel


Elliott Smith is Dead.


old man, reckoning
the large glass panes in which the neighbor's eyelids slide
think of us as steambeds
we frame the laws of animal sleeping
from this door I have spoken at
the age of the horse and its countermeasures of aging
down the street, in the slick of the bath photos
the orioles are wet across the buildings
they have announced the coming of a city
they too near the coming streets
they make of the tar a model hut and of people
we watch carefully carrying the letters
making of words and of words little


near sighted anatomist, two nudes
a potion near either temple
and there two of you not wholly positioned
my outside of the event eyes there
are animals ready to leap into your open abdomen
you want night, you are a culprit of living matter
and why you smack of late evening

to wear things placeable remove your garb
only to be videotaped and regarbed
and with glasses you have no excuse to get so close
the nudes are part, true
but above, breathing the same as remarkable
airborne creatures, too little slendered


are lungs beautified by the starlet
umbrellas float by many carcass
we can fuck all night on the shore
if you bring the medication
amidst the undulating bodies
woven among the lanterns

the bluecoat must be ready for the night
don the further element its rain
wets us as we sit close for the bus
uncomfortable in how the bluecoat is on my hand
stops me from
(naked beneath its length)
lashing out at my desire
I remain as finite
thing bunched numb


Lytle Shaw stopped by Buffalo last Wed. to drop science on the uninitiated. He read from "the Lobe" (Roof) and also from a critical work about the visual art of Jimbo Blanchy (sp?) and the difficulties of searching for natural springs in NYC. I attended a talk in Berkeley featuring Shaw and Juliana Spahr awhile back, and I was pleased to see him again and to be taken to school by his hot-shit "Translations." Read his book and the new issue of Shark (#4). At a lovely dinner after the reading, I purchased a copy of Lyn Hejinian's "My Life in the Nineties." Holy shit. You know you need this. Order it from Shark direct: Sharkbooks. c/o/ Shark. 74 Varick St. #203. New York, NY 10013 Email: sharkbooks@sharkbooks.com. Also, stop by the website: www.sharkbooks.com. Shaw and Clark did a VERY NICE JOB producing this little number!

from click click

the swamp leg
is ideal for the bird's nest
as Hollywood peopled, derivative, yes
vivid interest in the bird's lifelike
in how, say, making friends else
gassing the subway again
we are allowed to take the leg and walk around
the smell must not detain us, we are makers of art

in fact, the leg is from the swamp
the children at the park nest near
the suburbs as the city without leg
its swamp is aimless and away on foot
the city breathes itself
because it can not flee
no swamp, nor swamp leg
burdened by such caustic blogs

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