FOUR BLUE STARS

A painted shadow does
not change

A legion of secrets

to equivocate
to avoid

the mistakes of closure

War nods off
to sleep but keeps one
eye always open

The weather’s gentle
glossolalia

Paper over shoulder reads meet

triplets with identical boob-jobs!

It was a sub par morning

*****

We have forgone the rectangle
of tamed light for a structure that is itself
rhythm, hymn-like

voices overlaid
in a dizzying charge

I got lonely

thinking about how the galaxies are
so big they could run

into each other and not
even touch

Then I got self-interrogatory

with caustic shifts
sticky fingers

and disappearing blips, afraid
the dead will see

I’m not very brave
or worse, that

I am

It was said someone was
hired to insure discontinuity

*****

Anselm’s unlikeliness
contusion & fog
shot through with soft sun

I once bought a girl
four blue stars behind
her right ear

She bought me five
cases of cheap beer

Is it redundant to admit
the perpetual, uneven

flux of being knocks
me the fuck out?

*****

Harmony says he found a piece
of some guy’s shoulder in a pillowcase

Recurrence of the specific
is abominable

The dancer confesses her precognition
of Albania, but feels she

must delete it

This was and is
how I communicate
with myself

conjuring awe on the outskirt
of war

99¢ DREAMS

Societies of superfluity
require doses of the end

of the world

There are no stories…only situations

It was Wednesday morning
we were exploring

a poetry of a dancer to dance a haircut

*****

It is said one is either
poet or assassin
and I myself have grown

conspiratorial amongst the contradictions

being both

Bryant Park 3:29 PM

People keep trying to walk
through me, old
people, pretty people, people

without noses carrying

dogs in a sheath

*****

In Japan god

stands on an artichoke

but here in America

I take the PATH train and the rocks
at Journal Square look exactly like Disneyland
rocks and the first

store you see boasts
99¢ DREAMS

WE APOLOGIZE FOR THE INTERRUPTION

I am writing a new long poem called The Small Dance, which refers to a technique pioneered by Steve Paxton that involves standing. Don't let standing fool you, it's not easy. In fact, it's more like a perpetual recovery. But that's not why this blog is interrupted. It's because the form of the new poem is typographically complex and I haven't yet figured out how to accurately translate it from the page to the screen. I'll try to throw out some snippets until I do. Thank you for your patience.

ON THE WESTSIDE HIGHWAY WITH A BOTTLE OF DRAMBUIE

41

2:32 AM—a long, long

woman cornered by Rauschenberg

A rock dangling from a beak
physics gone wing
to aesthetics

We ended
up on the Westside

Highway with a bottle
of Drambuie

I had no idea
how sticky it was

In the morning it was
coffee on my nose
in a rush

down Broadway to talk
over Reich, attempt

to unbind the armature
to unburden the jellyfish

and it is hard to imagine
how much I look

forward to the stockings
on the tall Canadian

woman—I wonder
if she looks

forward to anything
about me?

42

April 3

Not often is it that I grace
my own eyes

which tend to tend more
removed entities or look out
at some middle

distance in a great float
of thought

April 4

On the street my eyes caught
a glance of a man

cradling a shattered hand
and found myself inadvertently

trailing a discrete line of his
blood five blocks

to where it abruptly petered
out without incident

April 5

Look out the window, fix
your eyes on
one thing, attend

to the words that flutter
around it, now
think about the poem

you just wrote