The historicity of plastic molds,
dollar bills, their edges yellowed
to the wall. Festivities occur
regardless. The long flaying
peacock feather. Small paintings
like walls of crooked teeth, their eyes blinking.
Reduction of inking and emptying,
each day a different motion stretched.
Hands swings forward forming blush
on little cheeks and each day the glass
is cleaned and the log is lifted
a little higher than the knee, a thousand
buoyant mornings that ask the same thing.
Rendered cuff-links and paw tracks.
Altercations under building awnings
with gold poles, having finally arrived.
Careless meters, the diagram fraught
with conciliation, a constant who-done-it
brazenly rewound and rewound.
Exposition works better than remembered.
The syllable of each word, each naming.
Cherubic plastic scenes, the eyes suggesting peace.
Red fortress, I’ll expose to you
my undersides, my concentrating
mastery and derelict non-futures.
Carrying electrical direction as
a frame entering the ordained position
where we are caught. My legs
and the washing machine, a metal
coil and windows below as headlights
return. Barracks expanded slightly
with side streets but always nosed
in the same direction. Guiding ceiling
and descending steps, having touched
another and certain you would never be
able to pull out. Diction and sarcasm
are a constant predicament. I was certain
you only existed when I was there,
disbelief in your alacrity, your ability
to be seen by others. Fair tenderness
opposes inability. I have other ways
to conjure remarkable flooring and the idea
of hair and shaped chin. A weight
looking down upon the hollow,
feigning repose. My back wall against
introduction allies what is intentional
and what results from chance:
the whitening of extension. Serenity
articulated and refined through
fingers like industrial boxes in the distance,
releasing what they have successfully
altered. Journeys and shoulders
and nudge-nudging, a repetitive chorus,
an octave according to blue, according
to the box it emanates from. A constant
intake of ways to get out of here. Ownership
is achieved in bunches and bellows
from the height of a shelf, arms stretched
upward at nothing. Hands open wide again
and again in their well-exercised routine.
Lightly, without a bottom:
a present, a particle, a plastic bag.
My important impression, intently columned.
Post forward in hope of response.
Vestured space immune to nothing,
approached by nothing.
No colors, no collective baggage.
Nothing to pass down to smaller hands if smaller hands are created.
Reoccurring travels passed the same street signs
because this is the only way home and all you do is return there.
Concrete carousel, a battle of tires versus will.
Instruction has moved the body and the seasons
and the way we cloak ourselves at the table.
Vantage rings over an impersonal place and everyone answers,
everyone says hello and wonders what will follow
as efficiency is brushed over our backs, the fabrication of know-how
needing to be trimmed and postured.
Inarticulateness has resulted in many losses,
many residual handshakes and partings.
Argyle and wool and other warm things,
moving forward through walls,
through sounds, through what does not belong
to me. Transposing filtered grips,
ceramic guards, manes smooth and unremarkable.
A substance collector on some other moon,
the specifics are cold and invisible.
A walking rubber band returning and returning.
Streets, a fist, square shoulders, only able
to imagine the place that came before.
Auditioning with levers and supplies
you have looked upon over and over
in your nighttime room and compared
against lists you’ve been keeping,
lists that you’ve carried in back pockets,
in folded squares close to your chest.
Instructional biologies, a web characterized by collars
and trains that run from the center to a different
theory, expectation not withstanding.
& twilight skies stuffed with blue, punctured
regionally & lower in your direction. Bells
impressing a heavy construction, a recognition
of what was previous or what clacking it accompanied.
Elemental measurements & potential equations,
adding machines repetitively pressed as items
are swept from shelf to basket. I am creating
an accurate representation of myself, allied
by little plastic bottles with little tiny text
& a group of other conditionals. The camera
is responsible for capturing not for what gets repeated.
A rolling tangent, the street outside my office
is happy in its leisure. It doesn’t sigh or lure
it just sits like a mailbox empty of mail.
Not a posture of context but pressed instinct.
The lights controlled by some outside place,
sitting in unchosen darkness.
Saying the same thing, strained eyes and readjusting,
this routine weekly bartering.
We choose stories to tell, ones with arcs that reach the ceiling.
We put them in envelopes and write names on them.
Sensitive eardrums trailing through the pipes,
which deposit what they carry elsewhere.
There just isn’t as much to imagine anymore.
One red string.
Blurry and captured particles displayed in rows,
the origins of each described by flicking switches,
opening and closing the light,
revealing a passive mantle full of dusty jars
filled with pennies, their copper faces kissing in darkness.
There are not many little feelings,
but one large one with many sides,
like rolling quartz between ones fingers
or down the ravine, a product of a gap that has closed,
until all sides are smooth and indistinguishable.
The damn a final resting place for what cannot by nature adapt any more.
Instructions only so flexible, like when there is a glare and we squint.
Rotating vocabulary and present tense.
Metal guides its own way through the snow and we watch.
Eloquent fastenings unspun, fired off onto the flatness
of the landscape. The fond herding gathered strong,
evened-off in inquiry. Piveting bridges constructed long
after there is anywhere to follow. The great curve flecked
with instinct and safeways. I am no longer interested
in any of this, joining eventual semblance with clavicles
prominent only in forlorn stretch. It is warm
inside, blinking and gazing amongst what clams
around our bodies. Of places unseen I imagine
nothing or instead an echoing caveat and then
one chair, empty of body. The rough terra
regional to our destinations marred by fingertips.