The other marjoram and the clothes
Are chimes inverted for her story,
What if we had chives, asparagus?
And what, asparagus, if we had chives?

Why did all that rain fall
All day in the grounds
And on the bird feeders,
And through the clearing?

The neatest patrons are back,
Their statue tortured by your autumn sweater.
Then there is the storm of receipts.
The salad bowel needs sanding, but not this

Fall. Scatter the remaining marjoram like dust.
Sweet peas from melancholy gardens
Sautéed over her faux tofu.
Fruit flies like a banana.

.                                             “No, don't warn me I know it's wrong
                                              But I swear it won't take long”
                                              - Yo La Tengo

“Relations are more important than the things they relate,”
your old comrade said, in the late afternoon session,
in that city behind the taciturn mountains, his hair
now colorless as snow, which came late this winter,

not unexpected, but a surprise none-the-less,
like an off-color joke at an increasingly drunken
party, filled with relations and old friends, who
had come from – but enough, this sentence is

to long already, and must stop now! But why?
Won’t it just be followed by other sentences?
And they will still be connected to the last.
But, again, why? Is everything connected?

Perhaps, yes, in the bigger picture, but we can
not always be in that position, must glide like
rivers, understand through concrete images,
cement our small innovations in place, and

re-enforce them -- béton armé it’s called, in France --
Oh! France! Land of Paris, capital of the 19th Century,
with its naïve progress, its precursors, and its
unconscious serenest seeds, rêves and nightmares.

For personnel
I’m person L-2.

Not per Sun
       (shun nature,
       your alien nation inside)
but per Cent.

Time our time
count time slots
by the cent
     carry only the remainder to
          Sunday. The rest
          for you.


66 per cent of me for me
33 per cent of me for you
compounded daily
     fragmented,
          The hands
          The back
          The brain
          The heart
and we must buy back
          parts of parts.

9% carbon and 90% water
     can be brought to boil
Copper and oil
     can be taught to toil.

Sly,
sliced and diced,
a die:

A Rubric Cubed
     (there’s the rub)
     each side, each face
     a place out side.

Can we learn
          assisted
     to put the faces together
Or are we turned
          and twisted
forever.

What are words worth? No store of pelth,
by the sentence or by the shelf.

Should it come to this, without remorse? Like that orange, feeble
and deciduous, while we waited with binoculars through that gray on gray
afternoon for the owl to spread its wings. Perhaps it did, past dusk,
behind the trees, under those vaguely baleen-formed clouds.

The clouds cast shadows on other clouds, as if holding them up against reality, even for our affirmation. Did you think of me this morning, over your Life cereal, and did you miss the fruit?  The “organic wholeness?” What is the determinant thing that dissolves?

The dissolution of the self-contradictory comes from the dissolution of the determinant thing. Arguments formed in apartments over a bowl of cherries or a bowl of ****, or some such. Loss of a determinate thing (under Article 1262, par. 1.) is the equivalent of impossibility of performance in obligations to do referred to in Article 1266. We are left with the form of a bowl, perhaps a ginger bowl, or some form of lost lacquer.

The distinct lack of skyscrapers from SoHo up through Chelsea was said to be a function of Manhattan bedrock. But modern materials seem to have overcome that problem. Getting on the subway, he heard someone say “…as if each word is born with another word, and spends its life on lines looking for the perfect rhyme". "You know they mate for life," he thought, "the swans. If one is killed, the other often dies of boredom.”

At the second turning of the second stair
I saw you in your underwear --
It was long ago, but I’ve not forgotten
Glimpsing through the flimsy cotton
A shadow of your ***** hair,

Round a ******* hint, hid from the light.
I think I gave you a small freight,
I saw you blush, turn, ascend, your ***,
Now  memories of those stairs, that night
Make me so hard I **** and come.

I went to the river last night
Dreamed of being a river and sleeping like a river
You searched for a **** who was like a river
Along the East River and the Bronx
Just as you feel when you look on the river and sky, so I felt,
River! that in silence windest
On its way to a rendezvous with some river