verse it up

Corners who touch
in triangular
pinch, links, you are
the urge in occupying

underwater sandtraps.
Nightsweats. I bracelet
physical mysticisms,
move and able glass

to cradle my stiches.
You come loose,
your urge wriggles
from gold to copper

near hypothermia.
Stop away the cavern
of pinched froth—
angling specimens,

I wriggle free.
So mystical,
another corner.
My stopping is magnetic.

Prose block 4

As we approach ancillary endings, who touches grin-flecked chairs, arranges them in triangular devil-may-care magnetisms, mysticisms, movable mantras (nightsweats). Cushions occupy non-alert specimins, tinge them with gold squeezed from underwater copper, twine, pinched coral. I walk away from the physical properties of bracelet links, a hypothermia. Stomach, or sandtrap? Conceptually near my vocal chords, one another, spaced, in-swept, frothed. Erasure is stopping-- I can see you in the front seat, cradling, laughing, twisting the dial of wind slipping through cracked glass, cavern, a kodachrome. The material of day, its stitches come loose & I have taken a corner of road, arrowed & angling it, so when you pass, incline, the urge, incipient as cloud cover, wriggles free.

From your block

Continent splits :: in dealing with a weight

seems too wide, oh but we tricked the pools plastered

carve-outs a layer of glide. You give so much :: and?

for this beam a jaw sting

we cannot feel under :: surfaces reclaim

stampede to "any more"

red swish upper level disturbance (glance)

what really is? unraveled because

fragmented the double-line diagonal ::

be a gallery until you are

full of fixed omissions, take only the most

cluttered (contaminated) sequences. Yes, say

you stand at that point, scan the laminated

trees. Here, it is always about the how

variation melts builds cloaks

abuts soil, puzzling toward, hefted

when spirit eviscerates landscape, manipulates

actual shadow, a mold, bleak & sedentary.

some more (without punctuation)

rhapsody you
lift down me

whorl surf
splits black grease

exactness circle notes
pearl-middle tonight

in mud you too often
compressed soft

flurries as wheels
broken dawn spreads

too whose cerulean
conch washed commas

but not soundlessly
flicked litter vent debris

hands choral washed
interlocking movement

and it yes now
virgin further & you

used a spiritless axiom
spoken ascend in two

another prose block

Continent splits seems across a too-wide layer of glide. You give so much for this beam until we cannot go under any more. When will the red swish glance waht this really is? Words unraveled because silence hates fragments. Be a gallery until you are full of fixed omissions, take only the most vulmerable sequence. Yes, I say this in the most singular of ways. Here, it is always about variation and melt, build and cloak, buttes planked with blood-red soil. So much is puzzled here, smoaked and hefted when the spirit wanders away from the landscape. I manipulate the simplest of visions into an actual shadow, bleak, stratified, sedentary.

some more

rhapsody you,
lift down me.

whorl surf
splits black grease.

exactness. circle. notes.
pearl-middle tonight,

in mud, you too often
compressed. soft

flurries as wheels
broken dawn spreads

too. whose cerulean
conch washed commas

but not soundlessly
flicked litter vent, debris

hands choral. washed
interlocking movement

and it yes now
virgin further & you

used a spiritless axiom
in speak, ascend, in two.

3rd Prose Block

Turn rhapsody into a lift-driven whorl & who will climb (down, in) wherever you, me, at an exactness, greased ozone-light partitioning surf, a webbing of blacker shades. Notes circle upside-down jetties, fog decomposing, lesioning us as it splits, hovers, relaxes. Isn't too often you pursue a middle, but not tonight. Scales packed in with mud, pearl-compressed. You have twenty minutes, flurries as wheels, broken wooden piers. Soft virgin dawn, whose ether spreads soundlessly, a tapestry of cerulean, conch & jade. Too many flicked-at commas, a litter washed up. Choral vent, hands interlocking. Debris that used to be conscious, and as and as and-- it could go further, yes, now? Should movement speak a spiritless axiom, ascend, with you in tow (in two).

2nd Proseweave

The flatness of map
eyes ripple, conflagrate, bellow
like continents of snow
wind syllables
the land breaks up on

desperation, fingers collapse
become limbs solemn steps
across your shoulders, a boat
wrists anchored, knees, snow,
compass meeting you halfway, lost

belly of whale, halves
of somewhere-- other side bordering
lips parted across
miles, rested ocean
on restless floor

My creation from your creation

Airless clock occasionally
mirrors you, black closet
lagoon there unmeasured.

Whose sudden soap
to you lowers point? Ankles
& head to sometimes.

Its intervening of fragrance,
mix spice impartial
cinnamon documents.

Four footprints past 12,
furthest are
fairly you. Vanish

my glances it remembers.
I happened of tongue,
pulsation begins not

the response either.
Hazy pastiche, a penumbral
sensation walking over you.

Prose block #2

The flatness of the map makes my eyes ripple, conflagrate, bellow like continents of snow under wind. Like syllables, the land breaks up upon further inspection. Even in this desperation, my fingers collapse, become limbs that walk with solemn steps across the Mediterranean Sea. If your shoulders were a boat, my wrists would be the anchor. Up to my knees in snow, up to my knees in no. We have become a quizzical guide, a folded compass that meets you halfway. Because of this, we are lost and still in the belly of the whale, halves of our bodies somewhere on the other side of the border. One eye here, the other eye there; the lips, parted across miles of ocean, rest on the restless floor.

1st prose/poem block

In the airless corridor (a closet or mirror), I occasionally ask for you. The clock is a black-piped constancy there whose numbers float as soap shavings on a lagoon, sudden, unmeasured, reaching up to your ankles. Sometimes to a sensation, a point. You lower your head & smell its mixture of impartial fragrances, intervening spices, a languid (languishing?) cinnamon. The 12, furthest apogee-- four pasts, a penumbra. My footprints are documents that vanish. And I don't remember walking my glances over you. But I am fairly certain it happened. Response did not transfigure the pulsation of either tongue, as beginnings are ambiguous, a pastiche, hazy, dream-rich.

translation / interspersion

What causes the plumpness of light in darkness? A fabric half-seen. I swim through its fibrous examples, even-tided as the roads that curve. Carves "us" from the slow-to-rise day, the seasons I grew well in.


A tear-shaped flame channeled through your limbs, my limbs is what it feels like when we stop. Start? A charged instant, climbing from my orb to yours, a singular moon somewhere on your body. And this is the apex, the infusion, where I am cauterized to something-- found objects, human, & receivable, lungs or the viral outsweep.


In fire to be on fire. Closed-throated. The context cradles us, balances our interiority. I learn by stalling-- this, a variation of voice. Bring you out to float up-grain, in a guaranteed moment outshine. What century in mind comes first, a material. Foot of a compass, source of light, create circular. On which we pivot or migrate.

What becomes: you are an "O" to me, untwisted and calm. As cerebral a nuance. Under-pronounced in this early city night but clear, slick, part of the most distinct glowing ring. A percusive sleep, you and I, syncopated briefly, figures without detail, released from (relieved by) impression.

Next translation

What causes the plumpness of light in darkness? A tear-shaped flame channeled through your limbs, my limbs is what it feels like when we stop. Start? A charged instant, climbing from my orb to yours, a singular moon somewhere on your body. In fire to be on fire. The context cradles us, balances our interiority. Bring you out to float up-grain, in a guaranteed moment outshine. Foot of a compass, source of light, create circular. What becomes: you are an "O" to me, untwisted and calm. Under-pronounced in this early city night but clear, slick, part of the most distinct glowing ring.