Am I walking myself home again thinking of the power of money when it confronts me. The moon pulling away to some required Jim Henson photograph hanging in the kitchen on the extension of my street, guaranteeing a minor apotheosis. I had milk in a cup in my hand, walking. He reminds me of my favorite navy jumper, dog barking petals.
If atmosphere is falling off in the shape of a seahorse above practical gardens among mines in the wilderness, the sound supposes to be laughter in a film. Big sky profits turn articulate in the flowers, I remember the light in the department store, my family heirloom ruined. Crossing the street on the way to work it’s the first time each day. My mind has suffered a false pacing.
You could see tumbleweed. We came by New Mexico and the actual drama was a houseplant buckling in the space behind his seat, drove through a ditch and up onto the other side, the small country enough to put your palm in a glass of water. To get the mess from my eyes I had a dream I lived on my street. To market nostalgia I ate tons of animals.
Bougie #4 it was 2 to 1 in the top of the fifth and I was fairly weathered having condensed summerside with my mother and father who were listening but bored. Talk to me about Churchill, I’ll keep the pen. I hear the street, the feral wind abetting. It had been years and my body stitched itself to the sea. Anorak hair.
I tap the future to mow the waving fields. They are massless but if I am and the sea is behind me, blue cities, I require that you be anodyne, thoughtful, alive. Divergent, poor and common. Specifically he lived on Pacific Street, made a rental car a thing to carry into the subsequent campaigns, a band of lilies spotting respite from the empire which cannot be but a simple address.
The singer’s hair a heart around her face I left the script there. Silver dollar, yellow cup, I asked a question and my friend dissolved his abilities like ice. The best adaptive reuse of a building that has outlived its former use as intended by the squall that parts other days. Let me please learn to do more with the machine. People spent a lot of money on those numbers.
Each day is the same race to attention. If it was the last time I saw his parents they looked okay on the cherry couch, speaking. A word for berries hanging in the sorrow, we’re Jews aren’t we in the natural world, singing. My father says computers and the toast dings. Good reports from the dentist and cardiologist, lost in Mattapan we talk into July.
To call the painting Inconsistent Neighbor with Big Hair the street collides with life protruding, sometimes through a mouthpiece. Girls are like mines. I look behind the moon and see two Sundays, raspberries confused, the songbook balancing on the end of the bed. He wrote back in no time, said nothing.
Just like color I call mother to delight her. What is a woman doing in the woods with a machine, what constitutes debuting light and where does it deign to follow. The time of year that interruption acts the ferry charting back and forth across my mind, this building sung with jackets eating. The water trips into expensive plant food, I find a new bench.
Valley steeped with grace when we fall over it, I am hunting in the house with an odd set of keys and am myself. The floor has been tiled and winter will be something to attend in the dream where Brandon says he eats my arm and I am glad that we’ve come to this place of corresponding shade. My niece tells me to drink more water, she sings.
Did I close the window sufficiently? I wrote about the film for myself, sent it to a few friends, learned nothing of the world but the curfew of a sewn table in black and white desire it was summer and potentially anyone’s save for parts about ego. Ergo he lampooned the very acts of kindness when he became overly certain of design.
My parents are involved. There are times I dream how jasmine stills—I don’t need the machine to interpret expression, I need money, baby, at least two suitcases. It’s like he said I could try not to make this awful for you and spun me toward Australia in a roving basket of ideas. I asked him, if there’s only one of something, will it bleed? Talk to me about formality and glass.
Sometimes through a machine I think I’m going to take myself out of it but here I am parking the car again. To repair imperfection survey the window and know narrow purchase will beseech the embargo while an arrogance of time is more than the portrait lets on. Holy oracle, I want to have traveled by car. The fascist wind, it will be met in the sun.
Signs and wonders, the baby’s name was almost mauve. I was off to the city, six pockets, five shades of blue and the preferred intimacy of a man’s vulnerabilities. I’m pushing flowers here as well as fun and loving moments. A man enters his home, Hello?, I’m looking for the next foundation of form if its language is a season we sleep in.
I bury the folder where the sea meets this guy, two shades of blue but I’d rather not argue about color today. Lethario or approval distracting mother while I was saying they’re not going to dick me over. The house has little. I can’t respond to your monopoly imploding to supplant a nonpareil couch. To continue shopping, Issac moves apartments. All that was left was Charlemagne.
Certainty proceeds as kings, the chorus insisting by two sets of stairs, which then isn’t the morning or an earned walking prayer. The letters of an accident tacking rain to content, mundering any penchant for bible or blather, the lights fail to work on behalf of the man’s sense of pride. Rather, how long does it take to come up with new colors, to slip on the earth and hide time.
Imagining a city tucked into the sea, however many women stand back behind their husbands, on the one hand don’t bother me, style is a sense of wonder. I write sentences. Or the house when there were flowers. Under clouds get me to a corner like the courier is to nobody. What is the point of a bag heavy to begin with.
See, I’ve been looking to France since I was a child at the bottom of a cup. Something worth celebrating, Julius having email, these victories are all important. If sheer falling is part of the moon competition then we’re just drinking shampoo in aisle five. I love you says the three-year-old, knowing the sound of a Volvo.
Since I never break things I can’t shame myself in the banquette, a machine putting some birthday card to bed. America is when a woman suggests someone tie her shoes, a Marseille underworld consuming the highway, it feels rude to ring the bell. Two minutes of sun outside the office sending notes of interest to Electric City, Sea Cliffe, Surprise. Husbands will look like that.
Give me all your money but gently. Of late the windows have become bigger than the screen and if he’d called me Antarctic I might have bled my anger in a better state. Having sent the picture to my mother I looked at the stars before placing calls to consider the ethical treatment of ether. Don’t forget to save the lights.
The music up and sped me. Farnoosh and Bill were the only ones to wear my gold sweater. I felt like going to Henry’s, leave your friend and come with me. One time Ben demurred, taking the rain to L.A. (three walls and a fourth of light) I remember driving north on a milky road and calling a man named after peppers from the field.
Linden nights, we might have mistaken a nuisance or it appeared true believers need not apply if only alphabets flexed inversely when we said sit up straight. The ambitious world defied Vestry. Eventually I’ll need more envelopes to convey my preoccupation with time, which I’m pretty sure sublets an apartment in Brooklyn. I knew someone on Ditmas seven years ago.
Here is where it was blithe. Fluted guitars crawl back onto Main Street in a tenth grade dream which is probably where Alan said a bed bug would bite and go back to the sea. Whose turn is it to afford the Internet or its capitalized, durational light. It’s not awkward if you were an asshole. Morality is alive, long live the dirge.
When I was 8 and given a bundle of money I swallowed a telescope my mother repurposed in the 90s, hat racks deep in Massachusetts. Man delivers a hundred balloons for someone who does not work here, the apocalypse sloughing off perpetual dishonesty, you can’t tell whether they’re asleep or dead. (They are dead and they want a tote bag.) A series of questions regard the capital.
Acting as a bigger barcode of feminine conceit I also call it “Micropuff” shelving letters from imaginary landscapes, longer things stitched small. Or, which is it? He was looking at me with infamous eyes and I sent my friend figures in the mail. How when speaking was a play in which I’d put fabric belts on the word and for Alan, sometimes through a machine.
There was the time Jane saved me from a bruise on my back, some experiment of summer. Time wasn’t money because weather wouldn’t let it snow, I refused to look down but often choose to take the bus with Bill. The field confides in painted syntax and I get lines in the shower. We wait until eleven, which is now if we admit we don’t want feet.
I still get razors from my mother and sister since we had a cabinet courtesy of the company I never bought one in my life. At the top of the stairs you’d turn left, a set of half doors by my parents’ room, the drug store re-envisioned it smelled like mothballs or paper. An adjacent perch had you always becoming telephones in winter. Everyone yelled on Garrison.
There is everything then that marketable sea. A dollop of sky some ghost in the pavement I’ve never understood animals, the uncertainty consuming art before machines made the Ottoman Empire and the ringing swell. I report on the haze but my posture won’t hold up long enough with the advent of computers. Whenever I look there’s a girl running.
The feminine face of Sara’s son and the paranoid alterations of light propelled my walk home at night. This narrative belongs to the crawl space between equinox and drumming flowers rising from the moon shaped misanthropes determining the very arches of success. The city denies us. To wonder toward impact under life’s new sheen.
Set in an hour famous for women who read my body wades home. You can’t solve the Internet on your own but a sister loves pepper and she loves mint, I got a good deal on a plot of ornamental shade. New Haven on earth we found a parachute in Homerville, the bus was free and full of choreographed articulate mannerisms in the dark.
Lost in machine days it wasn’t as if they weren’t pushing me into the street. Woody Allen names his new movie Blue Jasmine. I am not a photographer, nor would a telephone make it so a woman and four men standing by the future’s chandelier might be thinking of things to do with time. You
Remind me of pinafore.
There was something imaginary about how he looked in a mirror, in dreams he showered in the middle of a room with mounting anger that anyone could carry to see. The machine let me reinvent portrait as victory—here there was a fight with a bird—I was saying come with me, if forgettable, song’s pure wavering, my symphony how it’s got to be, time this odd present I keep to myself.
Some new class in cloud strata separating earth—it started with an A and almost sounded like asparagus—I wrote to the platform, let me please do more with this machine. The cashmere stewardess sent tomato juice, an apology via monkey on bicycle; everyone clapped but me. Nimrod is lost in Orion and Osiris in the Dog Star.
To keep the shadow on a leg in a boot on the train, sure, I’ll let you look like a fool I whisper to the doorknob, N is for sky, people having beauty done to them. The dream began not under the toaster! to a blueberry morning, someone eating transistors asking to be photographed in gold. I’m imagining life. I’ll see you in 3 weeks I’m going to Frahnce.
The floors in the apartment slant; at the table I write a play called “Death in Fullerton” based on a scene a man told me about a tent and the president and the antidote to television, my own confessions about the orbit of a person’s body. How my mother said I can’t join the homeless network. The street gains perspective when the trees close at the end.
The expression makes the sheen double, is considered a rational archive, a foothold in subcultures of occasioned futures. Actually we found ourselves in Queens. Of the wild I wonder. Taking the bus you meet the people in your neighborhood, mild confessions of small bottles in windows. I’d make a fine assistant to any mess. Glory in a deprivation chamber.
I didn’t really write a play but if I did, about that. He’d picked me up with Raisinets and I believed again in the false confidence of first-born sons. Cows and a picture from 1992 when Opal sees fruit flies or doesn’t, she sings, pumping the jam toward heaven. If what caught my body was a small cup it worked, as if he said Baby, when I get you a two-car garage. I wrote down vessel, hid the keys.
Once again I asked the soldier to lie down in my ear, four letters, I make the bed in three moments, I go. Some nights since a child I have felt the drive-thru sleeping moon. I find myself pleated beside an intricate neighborhood preserve that smells like jasmine to let light.
I think of the lawyer with his head in the park, my mother listening on a bench seat in the rain, wondering where it came from. The faith act of asking won’t undo the woman’s want, I’ve meddled in a field I’d soon forget. Someone explains the Internet each time an angel rolls her chair across the shellacked floor, that’s skee ball, a remedy for anomalies in the river.
What an umbrella was to a has-been if negligible—the restaurant under waves, what I feel is the sharp interruption of my face across a bandwidth I can’t abide. The boxed light suffers its late curfew, shimmering grace dealt again in the age of common weakness; the telephone elides its place in the market from the gallery of citrus.
No one seems to notice when the older women smile I think they’re mine. Keep going, I say to the passengers at the station where I drum stairs, wait, betting endlessly for a public work with lights for eyes to bring me underground and into the city. Someone has a poof of yellow hair, good for them. We admire your capacity for wonder, the committee signs.
Long-term care feigned voices. I imagine the way I’ll need someone next to me, my mother had a bag like this, now look at the sun. The vexed muscles of a worth I am myself in, to find I’m most attracted to competence. Night pronounced to move rooms and measure figures soft or not I am what I wanted to be when I used to think of Ruth I’ve read about.
Afternoon sewing light like folded gems pending cabinet decisions—my friends evolve. A chorus colliding with a bridge electric and dead in the water, Ollie calls and leaves a message. That was 2007. When people draw Iowa they sing fawns like the dogtooth no one is. Sorrow is wayward, in other words, to rationalize is to be the moon’s prayer.
A Dutch door and copper sink the government is calling again. I guess I have pots for when my mother comes—for show—to show how I make eggs. On the street I pretend there are people who have things to discuss other than food walking their dogs into night. If a person starts out with beauty it can only be taken away.
The second time is always better than the first or if I walked to the beach you’d have been there, buzzing in my ear, some catapult waving a penchant for destruction. I am or would be part and parcel of a venue if I could only collect the days, fold them into bags and call a body’s work done. It stung and they responded to my form in kindness.
The boulevard exactly what it was, a pink room serving quail or eggs on distinct cue, I’d driven because the city belies decision and authenticity. Light ushers the kid’s sense of day. Yeah, we can watch the shadows get longer, I don’t want this telepathy anymore but if I were a dog I’d be barking.
Indefinitely swept into a barrel is the canvas I return to every Woolsey morning, flexing confidence toward the soul by threading silver to the pilot light in the confessing. I call Jess, I call Alan, I call Jae I call Ben. My sister signaling to the okay statue on her left gives a dog a treat on the street, Maya making her family. The machine rings.
My natural state is a form of disruption. Like aqueducts condense Boston to the apex of a remembered industry I have something to say.
Wolves can and do kill children and pets. The world presently divided into people who see things and don’t, I have a dock if need be, a voice above my ceiling to contrive the potential songs in the green theater of my mind. Ivory who did it we need an epigraph for energy. The leaves sound too much like a person I fright.
Read: I kissed him, a coat scene. The Ghost and Mrs. Muir offered uncertainty and a box of cedar, I said no. It was soft like a glass of water or someone who didn’t want to be the person I was at most things. A being shucked (the willingness to be another) I imagine my life closer to the aperture I value. In Canada lights my friends configuring, they gesture slowly home.
If you’ve seen a California symphony staged in my living room the purpose has folded itself into a file of islands. I call Alan again. He warns sometimes you don’t chew.
Whoever had this book smoked, strike or not it happened—I never saw the waves coming into the city but then there they were like an orange bouquet, and affable. I store the machine beside my bed to encourage a mountain into my keep. His stories were funny but not extraordinary, the summer season should be starting in the east.
To the difference between bright confidence and a winnowing space my friend is a palace plugging in cords and their machines. The heat sounds like another state conscious of its line break. Here I doubt the message before it turns, soliciting miners regardless of a planet’s position and the door heaves when it falls back to earth, laughter under the clapping.
The one who stole midnight will bring it back to pay with a small piece of plastic to choose to walk in the sun. Curtains align the emergent cry, matriculating uncertainty, how to walk regardless of various keys. They didn’t know across time but me, I felt the sea becoming an iterative home. Men in the water, swimming, winter showing off light to say entrepreneurs.
The correspondence deferred my leaves, a life of eclectic shadows under an era I refuse the wall as the end of the dormant period. No one really had my feet and my idea for new color was to stand in the shower until someone calls from the other room. This steward was handed down from divorce and Scotland. Color begs the sweater off, be nervous with me for letters я romantic.
Determining the velocity of people my street allows several pleasures and I hear a small person explain evolution rhetorically to my neighbor. The yellow myth confirmed I was almost halfway to the use of this, Princess-Summer-really-now, I saw a miracle, I’m coming over there. From this day forth I’ll read to you from the inside of a cardboard box.
Some daily perimeter a nest of remembered attempts at days formerly pronounced with a wailing. If I go to bed with an object and I’m looking for a particular voice, am I wrong to press the knob when it falters? He could sound like a pot boiling eggs, a toothbrush in the country, the kelly motherboard of machines, precise and kind let it wobble low.
Besides, I didn’t like how he asked for gum. If I don’t know what to do in the world could you fix my lamp? Pink ice cream trucks in the vitriol of shanty dreams, I ask where’s the snow, is that Zeus?
The Bishop had been known for high spending. Dark was able to get used to things when the city ended every few blocks.
Don’t be late for heaven, I always say that. If you make someone alone shut down dirty the machine and put the letter in the mail. 39 Rue Madame my favorite dress lies on the bed like Christmas in a dinghy. Like a man my mind has sown its legs digging into the sea on Sacramento Street every day at three. Note the sneakers tapping the pavement, dreams as ordinary scenes.
To consider the efficacy of a Jones Beach afternoon and a charged haircut the world’s original problems were made from fire. There was a bag of peanuts in the house, I saw them eating them.
What’s forgotten isn’t punishable but interstates made me feel grounded, I was almost never in trouble. To speak a form of disposable choice my dearest friends live far away. Frog and Toad are no longer with us. My mother bought me shoes on the occasion of having ended my years working in an ice cream store, here, she said, my Pleasure, she said, wear them well. Let me remember
How she drove home from the store last week, lights off, dusk and horses we laughed brutally and I promised to stop for fear she’d wreck the seat which, as she pointed out, was not made from leather. I know I go on.
Every time I see a river in a European city I hum Prague, a song in the belly of a sixteen-year-old pretending. Today the idea of exertion was a sandwich I debated putting into the fridge. My parents shuffle in Pima County. They glow.
Faint light and diagrams climb stairs, double knot the arches of night. Some poems are the aftermath of correspondence; there’s no sense of modest self, anyone with wet hair ringing in the city. A roiling bowl my friend and I got off the highway for vegetables, he doesn’t even know me anymore, or any flowers I’ve thought to perpetuate.
This is the second of ten stanzas.
The song beneath little waves makes the machine. That my friends meet their due honors I’m in heaven and on time. Here there are two women singing into each other, the same voice and song about a crab from New Zealand, now a waning galaxy, now I am a spit of chords.
The film was about pants in a delightful way—unlike his wife—the future hung low enough to believe. On the actor was the taste of confusion. To give someone a break, say so in another language.
You could convince yourself a two-dimensional mind is greater than its introduction but I’ll wait in the car with the radio on. A picture of children pulled by animals around the majestic farm, lists collected at the end of the pier, the inexplicable self in the center aisle of a Stop & Shop among the furniture and seasonal candy.
I’ll clean up this mess of Ajax on the PRNDL while you gather the directions home. To deliberate over liner notes and misinformation, I’m not complaining and suit myself.
In the year of the small glass cup several campaigns succeeded. The vessel itself, for instance, a daily remainder of choice. I couldn’t see as well. Attending the topic of the moon and how to collect it more efficiently, now this toothbrush. Healthcare. Novel directives and a white sweater with wooden buttons to make me think I’m our father in that kitchen again.
The way my parents have always celebrated newness, with our petite cat handmade bread hunts in the dark, for being Jewish. This song is always for them, married the day before Thanksgiving, 1968. See how I turned, turned into the particulates of sun.
If to come in and out of consciousness permits the mind to settle by a phrase like the imaginary basin I come to each day, a hill sloping into the dissected sea, the driver thought to steal a stroke from me at the end of the night that era, I said I couldn’t, I had a movie at home, which was partially
True. I have for years used the mode of cinema to feel cloistered in my own form. So long as time isn’t running loudly but levitates enough to feel however many days you might collect in recent memory to consider changing, itself a monopoly of belief. Or lilac fops in the field.
The subsequent Second Coming happened in the hills because I loved my neighborhood and knew its rouge breaker. No one played cars that night. The year beginning in the middle of the week where I was met with strangers because they spoke first, or to me, then my friends, their friends handling with an informality that only happens at two in the morning when you’re not there
Looking for it. I went to a party I could run home from and did, along Webster the stars made of white rain. There is a kind of people that don’t kid when they talk about hot tubs they are talking about money, a bullish realization that choice is the carrying on of intention when they say dates you say potato.
At least twice I’ve seen a woman like that, divining states of aggressive cakes my friend will soon miss out on the future easily changing its relation to night. I was surprised no one but the moon walked me home, cracking jokes about fromage. I looked again this time for a red light until the afternoon told me to get out of the way to San Jose.
And this long thought began from the neighborhood blinking one night in October and after Notley.
I learned about practice in the first part of the day, which amused me for how I had no conviction as a child. That spring I erased numbers when they no longer belonged to me, the match broke light into song following work. I am often folding garments and writing back in the woods of top-down kingdoms.
It rained. Wilds set the boulevard.
My sense of time disrupted most things and I let other people pack for me. The condition was serious in that it predated payment as a song to carry into the next world. What are friends in the eccentric dime of life? I began to pick up pennies again, mere tunes I played attempting to soothe the bathers.
In spite of the heaven bright I cut a drawing of a camel repeating my name. The future supposes to be; to burnish triggers into currency, to take a ride in the park and sneak under the flowerbeds.
I asked then and I’m still.
If you really think of it was the state of a child. My hands set up the moon by a cup on the sill during the Reagan years, the avian myths created for and by myself, they were minimal but otherwise how do we believe? To mute the machine is to have other ideas. I fed the sea loose change.
Turning into slips of paper by the fridge, I’ve decided to say no. These modes of emotional transport as the result of that and others things is the foreign machine met each day with the opening and shutting of the light-box. The results underwrote various engagements, the sun a means of walking past other people’s houses.
I was going always to the hill, to my street and recent mind. The brass orbit wasn’t imagined the monkeys had been there, spinning by the sea, and a man confirmed the map of Pacific and Battery, perhaps the most understandable corner of the city where
I’ve become a stalk permanent and lithe, skilled at painting morning with substance. The bottle opened a week ago, several men at the door appraising light. There, in the midst of improving romance, chattering into the pillow if you don’t get what’s being said go back to the city that knows what you are, that you lack humility and conviction the same torrent dotting the waves.
He broke what might have been another time to find comfort in the recess of a stranger. The forest played on the glass speakers as if bred into a cloud and blown over the sea. I liked that he cleaned up but not how he was mortally shy, fading to black in the place he’d come from, rushing evaporation techniques. The ethereal tubes fasten our minds, which don’t laze in
Rivers but if they did it would be in the middle of the country where the sky might call your bluff as I have this morning. One method had no confidence and this other brightly had it all
But I no longer wished to write a letter to the elements of any form which included the present, where figures become some other architect confiding halves of blackness to an ordinary bowl under historically casual hills, installing the echo’s minor hollow, bleaching the fog at night.
It was sufficient to consider these figures of the mind when the tundra lit the plain.