a word comes,
and do you know it?

have you perceived it much?

have you been within
the embrasure of its
flared walls?

or walked through its ensemble--
the robed meal of it,
the silken and profuse
excellence of its livid body?

a word is a vagrant.

it passes the lips,
and into the world

(roots, nettle, and tine)

becoming within each thing
it moves, the hulking arousal
of vibrant self.

or it is some inept smallness.

mumbled erstwise the flawed
****** of a dumb mouth.

it tumbles,
relaxes,
being the body
and the root of the body.

a word is the flesh,
and the kiss of a wife;
the small depression
of a child's heart,
pressed swiftly
between canale
and capillary
into perfuse
exhaustion
of running laughter.

a word is the foamed sea,
washed over each grain,
until smoothness pervades.

a word is the grass,
threshed underfoot.
easing of its body
some tender
moisture.

a word comes and uncomes.

how have you known it?

and does it become you?

come into a word
and the earth will
enumerate you.

it will become the everything of your self:

the namechild,
and hand within--
the flexed carousing
of your muscles,
and folded effusion
of thy clattering laughter.

mind ,
doing
     the    flesh
        thing ,
  sits
occasionally
    standing
(sometimes)
    when
and if
   the undull
sudden
   happening
of body
  arrives
through all
quiet darkness
a vibrous
  and
luminent ,

     "Hello."

"One question I find I ask myself more and more as I get older is, 'have I ever really loved anyone?'"

.















































"It's so hard because I've loved so many people, so intensely.

And not one of them ever really loved me back."
















































.

.







































"Whenever I meet someone I really like I always want to tell them I love them right away. In fact, I have to try really hard not to.

Most people are just as afraid of affection as they are of abandonment."































.

.
































          "If everyone were equal how would anyone have any value?"

Goodbye
I loved you the way
night were
stars and
ceaselessly
against darkness
standing brightly
up the sky
by a shore
suddenly
with the ocean
froth and smell
of green girls
coiling between
your toes
a whole meadow
immediately with
course hulls
under the fingers
buzzing a bee
by the rain
in whose black
body Lavender,
thyme, and
thistle
shouldered
up bearing
the blind
of new sunlight
“like shining
From shook
foil “

.




















"I've never been with anyone as rough as you before."

































.

.
















































"You can hurt me if you want."



"You're not into it–

I can't do it if you're not into it."







































.

i love you
being the leg beneath mine
,my wife
who is
beautiful
and feels warmly
something softness which
i love to feel
.



.




.









,

.



































                                                  "what can I do?"


                                                   "what ever you want."






























.

.

























































                  "What is truth?"

it needs to the
constantly always
want endlessly
enough that

never

never

never

never

never

never

never

never

nev­er

never

never

some's
a   little bit,

starrily snowing,

sky so

(a rook between
         h
       a   n
          

         g
            i
       n
         g               by


)

"because those who worship weakness should never be surprised they serve those who do not."

Dying: that's life–who is a boy

sitting alone; and knows,

but writes a poem anyway.

.































































­










              "I used to be so nice."


























































­
















.

of a body
being 2
bodies:

you are my love.

the wifeblood
and the childheart—
beats within you,
and sumways,
being the hollow place
from where all life pours.

and if anything is sacred
your hips are sacred:
the cambered holsters
of my sleeping children.

you are brazier,
forward carried,
into largest darkness.

the light whose,
consumed nearly,
rages in the face
of blackness.

(i love you in the flesh of my palms;
their meat holding somewhat of your
glowing warmth.

i love you in the apple
of my closed chest;
opened only at
the brush of your laughter.)

My Wife,
being my hull,
and the body
of my 2 bodies,

I love you.

in bigsome whole colliding
the earthmoonsun suddenly
start starring into opaque
coolness: the nape over
standing hair exactly

on ends of pricked groove

the moonlight is just
and the crooked
fullness of mountain
the breadth of pale sky
interposed, a uh just

under the scalp tingling
when it's outside
carefully snow
and your feet are so wet
inside your shoes

where you kissed a pretty girl once
and though you will
(why not)
be dead someday

turning the radio
up until its bigness
erupts

who speaks?
(that i should hear)
whose own body
is my voice.

Of how i am being
beginned
by the whorled blood
and the expressed chamber

i sit, kneel and walk
supposing upon earth
the each of my feet;

my hands kneed and fold--
i collect in them bodies of my children:
sleeping, awake, crying, laughing;

i collect in them bodies of things
unminded and minded alike;

i collect in them the sheaf
of spent grasses:
the hull of them
containing the celled
phantasm of God's breath.

i linger and i am not myself;
i stand before wall
and my gaze becomes fuzzed,
unfocused--and i wonder.

i touch and am known by my hands.

the things touched,
too,
are known
(perhaps)
by me,

in the quiet between
my buzzed flesh
and the smooth rudeness
of the thing.

i handle and am handled
by my loverwife,

(the coarse cutting
of her fine hip
hair is a needle

split

over the nerves
of my caress--

it electrifies--

and i am stolen
between the fibers.)

i am alive,
and how should I know it?

imaketherainwalksoverthebackofmyearsandIsigh:

"Good Bye"

"What do you think you're doing in here?"

being just the flesh eyes
make electric,
blue that
the sky
occasionally will be,

or wooled over
in grey,

and A house will
suppose a window

before which
(being just the flesh)

skin will
zing
electric

over from
the palp of winds;

the hair will,
****** between by
some air,
bumble and ******;

the scalp will rejoin
with wine,
spilt uncarefully
in sips
through the gullet,
and the cheek will
renumber the blossomed
heads of capillary and vein:
being cloaked in pallid rouge.

"I just want to ******* love you."

where is my body
i will lie in it
the world

from which
my flesh
trees the heart
and my breath
will come

into the stars
hanging
gossamer and
flung neatly
the pate over

and my mouth
will be the sea
issuing
verb
root
and foam

it will vibrate
from my own
valved throat

a single
straining
word

bursting

through all darkness

a fulgent
burning
FLOWER

"I want you to know: I never forgot."






                                               "I know."
                                                            ,
                                                            .

                                                            '







                                                            .

with what
cleanness
are wife hands
whole

in whose
joining
are the bodies
of my children

And

my wife’s body
in who slept
my children

whose breath
were
their breath

whose blood
were
their blood

carrying
the crumbs
of a little life
through
biggest
Death

"What's it about?"
"It's a metaphor."

"For what?"


"*******."



"*******?"




"Yeah."





"What's that a metaphor for?"






"Life."

bruise
i like
to press you. your

body and


the skin beneath me please

i would like to

                            ,
                                   press you.

i   have   felt   you ,
the           entering ,
of  a whole world
inside               me

   (I am its mouth)

but          it speaks

through your lips

i love you constantly
that you are my Wife
(and my Children also)

,and both my body and my lips

(i want to kiss you constantly)

your sweetness and your smile
and the smell off of your hair
and light sparkle of your eyes
and the very correct angle of your nose.

i love you always, that you are.

And that is no little thing
i think because
i love also the Spring,
our children,
the direct sheen of moonlight
on pale snow,
and always your constant hips.

i love them,
and not least,
but most;

for you are my wife:
always something,
easily eternal.

and I love you,

as nothing which is eternal
is not you;
nor the gate of your walk,
or the folding inwardness
warmth of your
creaseless thighs.

i want only to love you
for all my days and nights—
and when they are done;
spent of laughter and tears,
i will rest easily in the ceaseless
crook of your sea.   .    .

my daughter moves
there is something
shakes moving
rattles a bit
falling she
does
into sleep
something
small(smaller)
than all smallness
her tiny aspect is
warm and i think
Very perfectly small
and smaller than all
warmness. i fold the
several things of my
arms around her smallness

and


she


s

    L



    e



                      p




                                     s.
                                       ,


                                       .

.













































         "I don't like you very much."



































.

out here you can be in the land.

The snow is gracefully
in the cool churned
and dark sky.

(you can breathe)

here where
only the smallness
of yourself
can be heard.

your hands will go into the soil.

there will,
over them,
come frost.

and a flower will brace
against chilled winds
its caving stem.

you can be here
and see the toil
of the earth in every
turning of its pail *******.

you can cup to your mouth
the ember of your breath
and pass into the frozen
limb of dead spring
the **** warmth of your lungs.

you are made here,
in the land,
where you can be.

and the toiling of your breast
will pass into livid creations
of quickly eaten, hot.

you will be made and unmade alike.

you will dream of the bodies of girls.

and you will sleep between
the snow of their thighs--
pocked of rose husk
and shattered frond.

you will limp
between the
clean pillars
of their hips,
and your hands
will find within
their riven dirt
the striving root
of life.

(you can be here in the land
cold something
stirring its
magnificent hair
shaking off
the sheath
of stirless
snow...  )

And your hands will become numb.
And your lips will become numb.

and you will fumble between
their dumbness.

and the whole of you will become numbness,

(stumbling)

into the bubbling
heat of
Spring's
arched

HEAP.

there is something here.

the grass comes,
the body over it,
by foot,

and the whole body too,
carried on each step
arrives

in this place where
being is...

i do not know.

what should i say it is?

i have been,
i suppose,
and felt over me pass:

rain snow love the touch of my wife
the small sound of my daughter breathing
the occasional drip of laughing
alcohol and the warm warm warm
folding of my heart into manifolds
of hands over all things of being
perhaps holding the wheel of a car
(and how do you drive?)
or the tepid root of a glass of wine
or the shout passed immediately from
my lips at some transgression of my son.

i think i feel something
(is it the windcold
or the hot jet
of a faucet?)

i do not suppose to know.

i move
(i guess)
being something

Here.

.































                                ­              "I wrote you a poem."



























.

Come.







                                                           it's so












(i can't)dark








                            -inside-




where


i can't



                                                  see do you






see, where

dark please

(where I am)

will you






                           please

no poem with compares
to the stinging suddenly
up of what upward airs.
a moon half corporally

has by slow instant chance
itself in utterly nearness
2 on satin shoulders dance.
with no abrogate: queerness,

its indistinct afterglow
hugely downward under
openly golden star's grow.
has not by chance asunder,

the littlest death of bells,
to mountain quiver as rivers and in dells.

in 1
whole
pale moment
,rouged,

your LIFE dreams

of you holding
a square against
the sun.

looked back
onto the happening
of your mindbody

that breathing
instantly
took the light

from the porch
sleeping a
cat where
sitting

purrrs

indistinctly
under the
tiniest crush
of a breeze

--

A CHIME IS RINGING

--

and all stillness
waits to seize
the atom of your
hand in A square
against the sun
the collection of
its splitting into
thinnest sheets of
brilliance

pass me through this
(the lung)
an embolist--

not making a passage,
but constrict instead
all moving of hart;
all ******* of blud.

a minute will be your hands
around the neck of girl,
pale spent, lurid
in the cheeck--
a stain breathing,

below the eye
not clover
nor neither dye
but the curved hinge
from where all seathing flys.

by this the world i mean the flesh:
the lip eye
bone sinew
ear mouth
and nose;

i mean the nerve
over buzzed
by impingement;

the shocking
and profuse
frock of the
skin,

tingling at
the rush of breath;

i mean the cold
and cadaverous
welching of
the lips not formed
about spent gas,

in rutted exersion
of its yearning atom.

(the bone and hand
are at once in play
with the muscles,
which form and
gesticulate the self;

they make as unmake
and the world lists between
their span--

gripped tightly
in the 1 moment
and let idly
in the neckst)

i have formed
myself
my hands
around the
shafts of roses

and i have never been
myself less or more
than in those moments
neither being absorbed
nor voided of presence

but only being
the hand
around which
the within
holding
the presence of a rose:

i lift
to my nose
and eat
the exsellent
PoLLEn,

            .


                   ,




        .














                                   ­     !

who are we that we have been?

(I do not know.)

Nor have i or been,
or when and if,
and where?

perhaps if,
And I do not Know,
had i been
then i might,
being but little and a small nothing
(far from everything)
and walked.

but,
Not Knowing,
i wonder.

.






































                                                " This has got to stop. "


                                                " I know.                        "

















































.

.































































­










              "You taste really good."




















































.

sum wut werd 1 means
i dont think a single think
will mean.

And how should 1 know it?

By what name will you call this thing?

the nam'ed thing persists
resisting itself nothing
which unencumbers,

the still pistil
of a blade between
the toes.

Have your feet tasted much?

Have you been so proud to get at the meaning of poems?

(there are thousands of poems left).


                                                             .







                                                              .











                                                                 ,

.





























































                                                  Let's dance.
  
                                                  (And **** everything else)

i lay here in bed
and my wife’s
beside me her
breathbody is
rhythmically and
i can hear sleepness
which the curved
blades of her back
:(risingandfalling)
commit each after
each of breathing
which her ribs
contain and her nose
vents between cartilage
and membrane making
the finest whistle
only finer than the
thinnest fineness of
her hair which also
is and beside me which
catches the lamp light:::

      SHIMMERING

i will be A Poem someday,
(or will i)?
being some earth
maYbe or (whynot)
a worm, and who
will remember nothing
of being what
i WAS NOT being
(apoem?)
someday when i
was, and will U
be there 2? i
wonder laying next to my wife.

where in this alone
which you are
thinking some
of empty

air air air
over the rolls
and fluxed
earth;

the soil
in whose body
hides each
small seed of the grass,

dispersed again
and again
in root, clover,
thresh, and tine;

there is only
air air air
here in this
alone where
your body
finds the
caved silence
and the sluiced
arrow of a flower;

(it is a hill)

there is a girl somewhere;
far and not far,
between the hollow
of her corded belly
and the curled
chamber of her lips.

she makes
(who is a maker)
that will not make.

alone alone alone
in the
air air air

(who thinks some of
empty hills
where no seed
of grass,
dispersed within soil,
lays the earth over in
teeming abundance).

only alone,
in the air,
where the earth
fluxed and rolls,
thinking some
of empty.

Winter's coming did you feel
it this morning
walking
there is

DEADDEADDEAD

everywhere

leaves which

(did you)

crunching between

hoofandroot

the mouth
and which
enumerates the light

bending
unbent
fleckless strands
of sunlight

rich in mote
and flaring
about which
the coalesced

atom of LIFE
hangs
(hung
           )

ever so
and briefly which
we all are
but

just a

rich mote

hanging
in a beam