warp

 even when sounds are happening at extreme random
if there are enough of them happening
enough times
something like a cadence does emerge

there is a cadence of capitalism
a frantic cadence

a cliff of death
we all live in terror

there is no life






Musings

 Hating the word cadence

The person next door incessantly playing 
what can only be described as an oboe

I think multiple people are playing different oboes

I like it here. Tucked between organic music.

Sometimes another neighbor picks up a guitar, i pick up a guitar

I'm always singing and I'm sure they can hear me.

Talking to you, practicing my poems

Info Session - lyrics

Nodes in a tower
Far from the glittering city
Wrapped in a blanket of warm, wood
Cohorts clothed in abundant
pattern, like picnic cloths
a top a toy farmer would wear

Far
far from the earth far
Far from the dirt and mud
Far the sky
The grass and bugs
The flowers far, and berries far, and cows
Far and roads crumbling
'neath the barrel of tires roaring, rumbling
Far the tower, close together
Nodes
clothed in smooth tones, warm
where
A hand lain gently to face the other
where
no face and no hand at all
no face and no hand at all

the other where no face and no
the other where no face and no

no hand and no face at all
no hand and no face at all

Leeds (Aloud)

I was a collapsed barn
All you saw were the wisps of bent hay
Floating around my temples
signal flares for a pacified angel

My eyeballs turned 
patient in their sockets
that summer, sulking afternoon
While sentimental gossips poked them back ahead

Exacting straws, needled from firm dirt that lifting cracks
Shaggy roots that crumble
padded,
suffocating in the laboring sun
to possibly be drenched again and run into the river

Pointing and deliberate
The grasses wept
From another point of view,
it all looked soft

Crickets are another man's silence
The barn boards have old nails in them, so put your shoes on
This treasure is only plastic from the seventies
This emerald is only a wet stone

Some Days From The Summer Of 2017

I woke up at 3:48 to my telephone covertly downloading software updates to itself I was also in my own world overcome by doubts I felt myself at a fence at the farthest border of the the pen I used to play in The place where the garden stopped and the real mesh began I'm angry with my fingers and the way they and the software disagree And the way the words I try to emit are tangled and paused An intrusive rain is static at my window and seeing as it faces the back of the house, the rain is private and only mine I am not upset about the cracks in the screen I'm disappointed by myself 

I'm at a party full of people I recognize I think you might be here A person with a phone And a picture on the banquette downstairs Playing an important role i feel i was a web player come alive better than my damp fingers nothing on screen She asks questions in an open forum and sometimes i reply I admit I'm imitating something about a poster torn from a magazine melding with the wood and drywall Of your parents home what did you hope for tonight why did you come here I swallow my swords and pad them out instead This is it This is living This is the party 

I approached her not in the mood to cultivate already established relationships I wanted to say things, toss them against the imprecision of my own belonging I blended in with the couch without particularly wanting to That's why you noticed me 

You and your boyfriend like to have sex in the park by the river in that wholesome gay way Your life seems abundant with love even as you speak of your losses I speak of mine and they steal the abundance of our conversation Staring at me from your perch across the circle Without particularly wanting to The imprecision of not particularly wanting Something about a community our connection begins

Bread

I am not an anarchist 
Fed lines, I met the welcome 
Lost at the airport, left at mourning 
Neighbors kneading now

Prints

are icons are falling as
personal memories rise.
rain, trembling in a container.
over doing nothing for the past.

we are new.
we are not sad, we are shells.
nothing counts.
the day is long and light.
curves around us, into
us, as us

curves slow, maybe
missed, may be
we recite ourselves.

up, palms grit on the old ground.
we don't press our faces down.

we convene (and leave)
It means nothing.

nothing counts
more than now