and if you copy them out by hand they steal their way
into you, the dilemmas of pitch, the uses of a recording 
that go from marvel to marvel without complaint 

the nightmare is radical because it is simple

and if we are in the hell realms, and if
we are in the hell realms, a part of us is always
in the hell realms, mired as we are
in the world of bad intentions

by what naive intuition did we situate ourselves
in this realm whose evil finds no limit? 

this soul, this shadow, this racket
of a shadow who, the poet tells us,
seeks its unity head on from the outside
knowing with no certainty what lies
                                                          inside

in this horrible terrible of words unformulated
being, at the self's interior
slowly digests

this becoming nothing that will take centuries

and we may, certainly, avoid walking
through the door of such a poem

the true houses of memory, 
the houses where our dreams
lead us, the houses rich
with a faithful oneirism, 
recoil at all description.

to describe them would be to visit them:
the nuance hence speaks the color

we must, to the contrary, 
transcend the difficulties 
of description to discover
the antediluvian eggshell

she is truly a cosmos
(and is she not beautiful?)

so far-out that memory and imagination forget

their surroundings, 
their shoes, their names. 

Must we not render fixation 
her virtues?  How we trace 
ourselves, day in and day 

out, in our corners 
of the world?  

in its millions of alveoli, 
space is composed of compressed 
time. space is about
                                  that

all of our shelters, all of our refuges consonant
with the true histories, eggshells that once housed us

even after we trailed off from the hunting party 
to pause on a rock by the side of the lake

the lake was not man-made
the lake twirled a necklace
                        
twice 'round your neck in a gesture 
so shocking we thought it a firework 
lit by the hand of a still-innocent child

who refused 
to take off her gown
once Halloween 
had come and gone 

or to surrender 
the holiday tree until, 
finally, it fell into 
a heap of dust

on the first day 
of spring
 

here, then, is our central problem. 

to resolve it, it is not enough that we consider ____________________
as an "object" on which we can make our judgements and reveries spin.  

our task is not to describe our mansions,
to detail their picturesque effects or analyse 
why we are comfortable in them.  

we must transcend description's impasse --

whether objective or subjective, that is to say, whether speaking
facts or impressions -- to attain the primary virtues, those 
in which in some way an adhesion is revealed that is

native to the very primary function of living.  
we make the necessary effort to grab hold 
of the seeds of happiness, immediate 

and sure.  in every dwelling -- 
in the castle, even -- the initial 
eggshell may be found.  

this is our primary task.

your lips, receding
from the archipelago
of your nose 
 

Today's lecture on the bleeding eidolon twilights 'round the following premise: 
how, amazingly, I wished to unearth and decipher the aggregates that must
have had coursed through you in the decades spent, statuesque,
on that bench made of glass, your knees diamonds softened 
by cupped palms, covered quietly as if the curve of your spine 
were furniture, baroque throne unto yourself.  A handful 
of curls, and how when I wished to close the door
on the apparition, you appeared to be hinged 
upon the air itself, suspended without focal
point or fulcrum against, above, 
                                                     the sea

I.  

Strange birds, songstresses, seamstresses, albatross:
That old cartoon, that smelly old carrion.  
Carrier pigeons, those few months of loose morals,
that various playing field, played (out) and oh, 
I just remembered another, the one with Keats' lips.  
Keats' death mask, we called him.  Number one.  
The boy with the rose still waiting, legs dangling
on a slip of paper edged into my hand, left on the bar: 
"nobody, not even the rain, has such small hands."
That really happened; I really knocked that one over.  
Look into my eyes.  The foreign traveller, pale and
with certain scars I traced, crisp, clean, collared shirts,
seaside blue, still starched and toe-headed, so silent,
serrated edges when fingers raked.  I forget his hands 
but his skin warm glow radiated elastic elongated
and moist, a bit too much elastin there feel 
                                                                     the cool damp 
 

II.  

and everyone wanted to eat their flowers

                                                                      wanted
                                                                                     to
                                                                                          

watch the svelte fall
        of the torso, the flat
                expanse that breeds
                        nothing but undulates
                                 the bone underneath

                                             underneath's stillness
                                                    in stillness.  This one 
                                                            is german, this one 
                                                                          has gone grey.
  

watch, settle down 
        like the dust in the jar
                  after the jar has been shaken

                                         take care, jar
                                                it's been grand 

I want there to be a wall between us 
and I want to walk through it like a ghost
I want the wall to be a ghost, I want to chew 

through it, I want it to taste like marshmallow

READING FOR COMPREHENSION:
Wayne Koestenbaum's "Notes on Glaze"

Instructions: Read the essay carefully, then answer the following questions.

According to Wayne Koestenbaum, art is
a. a means to an end
b. a call to arms
c. spreadable
d. confusing
e. all of the above
f. none of the above

According to Wayne Koestenbaum, dreams are
a. real
b. novelizations
c. chicken feed
d. enjambed
e. all of the above
f. none of the above

The writer's sensations take place
a. inside his body
b. outside his body
c. in the lake
d. in Paris
e. all of the above
f. none of the above

4. The writer is
a. a glazed entity
b. a red wheelbarrow
c. a photograph
d. Jeanne Moreau
e. all of the above
f. none of the above

Prose
a. cooperates with posing's regime
b. knows where the red wagon is heading
c. acknowledges Emily Dickinson
d. shoots marbles
e. all of the above
f. none of the above

The relation between cloud and hayfield is
a. seditious
b. outré
c. syllogistic
d. irrelevant
e. all of the above
f. none of the above

Cloud leads to hayfield via
a. sicilian oranges
b. a waterslide
c. Hades
d. Jeanne Moreau
e. all of the above
f. none of the above

Avital Ronell has a starring role in
a. Gone with the Wind
b. The Lost Boys
c. The French Connection
d. Frozen
e. all of the above
f. none of the above

The real essay
a. ripples
b. is immobile
c. gambols
d. makes jam
e. all of the above
f. none of the above

The sperm trees are in bloom:
why don't you just embrace that?
Colors keep stacking up
like dinner plates in the butler's pantry,
immaculate milk-glasses,  
one on top of the other. 
Stop calling it that.
It isn't a pantry.
We don't have a butler.
And then, Mr. Karp turns to you and says,
Ok Morales, what did you feel? 
Which holiday? Whose patio?
I don't recognize that garden.
I don't ever remember standing there.
I have to close my eyes to see
how to write, how to keep it
disposable.  If only I could borrow
your hand, remember how to trace
the English Channel.  What year
was that taken?  You look thin:
that must have been before we quit 
everything, before we moved.

first, to be quiet, then
a time bracket
                        begun

a gua, a koan
under the leadership of a single person

formal requirements
do not read aloud

each person is a soloist, he needs
no direction

an interlude that must begin
at a particular time and end
at a particular time

simply a fluttertongue on the low tone
nothing more

On chalk downland, the autumn felwort,
this new remedy, makes an assumption
as to the lanceolate and dark green surroundings:
dense and stunted growth, dew-laden grass.

For some time I've been seeking a replacement,
a mildly bitter principle whose key phrase
might be "doing your utmost," but this
of course is of little value in the face of attacks

From the hungry rabbits of the downs, 
a fringe of pale hairs in the throat
struggling to climb into the bell of a flower
whose pistils are longer than the anthers.

Upward progress has been interminably delayed
by the breakdown of the coffee machine, the mean mahout.
What to do?  No layoff from this condensery:
never any consequences around here,

None that we can see, anyway. Try not to panic.
Remember the milk truck that arrives promptly at four
each day.  Account for each drop, cups in hand.

Who could ever explain why one leaves home 
with more than another, how the sea level rises and falls,
how to navigate its inordinate tides?

I miss analog, understanding.
Let me borrow your coat, the one
with the buttons and fringe, the brainiac weave.
I need to be surrounded by happy words, my kleptomane.  

I doubt I should, but should
of course raises
the very flag of doubt.

cherry plum, how quickly I fall back
into the world, missing her, the plumage
of silence, witness.

I want to know the name
of every tree, of the passing tenor
who makes the census taker take notice.

I want to get inside you,
and, once clarivoyant, speak only
in petalled tongues.

searched terms

A380-800 best seats
an american family
anticraft sinister
a book of forms turco
adjust color
agnes moorehead
between two ferns
blue book
baby noodles
bernadette peters
between the lines, side one
bulkhead seats emirates
berth preference side lower
bilk
california request duplicate title
citalopram india united states
celsius to farenheit
carroll o'connor
camaldolese
carthusian
dorothy kilgallen
death must die
dutch translation
eileen myles skies
emily dickinson prolific year
finnish tatting
filet guipure
flower delivery
forelocks
frank o'hara
gregorian chant radio
geneaology
gertrude stein epub
gita word for word
giver
huzzah!
hardanger
harvest
h.a. rey
hollywood palace
how to replace a broken macbook key
I know I'm not alone movie
I'm a spy in the house of love
in cold blood
I dreamt about you last night & fell out
I'm one
indian semolina
joseph cornell
janis ian
jan shatabdi
jean bourdichon
jesuit
joan didion
kannur temperature
kannur train station
kodungaloor train station
krazy glue
libra man
loreal
latitudes
liza minnelli arthur
le petit nicholas
monkees papa gene's blues
mother's day
majesty shredding in the car
mangalore train station
michael douglas bipolar
mary of bethany
motif
macarthur poets
magnificent ambersons
mayakovsky
michael wilding
mulberry leaf
new seeds of contemplation
no time to lose
outsiders hospital scene
osmide cartoceti
one day at a time theme song
our lady of fatima
obstreperous
philly phanatic
panegyric
pom-pom maker
password
peeps marshmallow
pound cantos
planisphere
quintana roo
robert walser
rusty james
raised tatting
recite the mysteries
revati birthstar
robert eads
ruysbroeck
rock-n-roll circus
stardust memories early funny movies
saint bernadette
serial mom
sempe
star charts
sound of music lonely goatherd
steve antin
sacred heart devotion
saint ignatius
star tatting
sal mineo
sanskrit exercises
sender jennifer monson
sky charts
santo domingo virgin mary
serialized
tatkal
tears
torma
trissur train station
twenty mysteries
tatted medallion
tale of a tub
them ishmael houston-jones
these days lyrics
the man who would marry susan sontag
the who a quick one
uses for tea tree oil
villanelle
what's my line
wayne koestenbaum stein is nice
without you I'm nothing
warren beatty what's my line
weal
widewales

Separating eggs, words come,
wondering, Are we the right ones?

What should we do today?
Is it wrong that we should be at play
In this strangest of theatres?

Tuesdays grow Dickinsonian:
the hacking and coughing that follows you
down the hallway and carries an umbrella
from time to time may frighten you today,
but will by next week be as charming as
the pancake sun that rises over the backwaters,
casting its devilled egg light on the fishing boat
named for its – your – beloved.

Little Peanut barrels ‘round the corner,
yelling, “PEANUT!” hair and heels blowing
whirlygigs behind her, and always she is
You, sentinel, antidote to grief. I wish
I had learned to draw. Take a lesson:
the children fill their pages with pure cerulean,
shapes and forms without a care for how
the public will greet them. Her crayons splayed
in a rainbow alongside the torn-open box
testify to that, how the imaginary eye
needs lashing, or, as it turns out, care.
Today, I’m aware that if I only remember
You, nothing else has any weight to strike me.
Still, once the breastplate is even half
dismantled, all that’s left is pan-seared,
payasam, the apparition of a jelly.
Magnificent obsessions, comeuppances
at tragic speeds: here we go again,
another agonizer, ‘cept this time
I’ve no beard to keep me company,
no husband, no wife.

No problem. Indians say that all the time,
No problem, but usually there is one:
a misplaced book, a badly wired fan,
some or other seizure that in time
you learn to let go of. But nothing,
in fact, is really tragic. I see the death reel
differently now, in retrospect.

Now parse parsimonious.
Seven cases! And sandhi grids! No problem!
It’s strange: my nails grow just as quickly as
my hair falls out here: parched, outdated thoughts
pouring buckets out of my ears. Are we ready
to open them? The floodgates, I mean,

to veer off

from the should into this new, haphazard,
hazygold territory of no static, no cling?

The apertures open wider day by day, honing your technique.
The path curves, shaded by trees whose names you needn’t ever learn,
just stretch out your hand, and listen.

what's happening in your book now? / found poem