there was a poem here...
now there's only a title...
i'm pretty sure: i was assured
that there was a poem, here,
but now that there isn't...
perhaps because of my...
spaghetti fingers so used
to typing and typos that i mishandled
a play on thumb and index:
whether it was the right hand's
or the left hand's "braille" reading
of how best to salvage
this least: this very little...
whether i wanted to edit before
publishing: and i highlighted
the entire body... and while holding
down the ctrl key...
or not holding down the ctrl key
all that came up as the draft was
being autosaved: archived as
a blatant impossible donkey
a stone of Sisyphus nothing nuanced
or new: not a cedilla "c" but a mere C...
that i don't read my poems...
that i allow myself enough space
to merely look at them,
sometimes my own, mostly of others...
i have lost so many poems
like that: by way of fudge and by way
of spaghetti...
although i have not eaten any of these
words...
i am somehow: don't know why...
comforted by...
words of a richard seaford...
              it's heartbreaking for mankind
to have lost anything (that has
been lost) of the Aeschylus oeuvre...
well i'm not an Aeschylus:
true as: and i haven't been dead, yet,
and that it's not like
i might expire with such marble...
such... expansion of time:
would i tire of this sort of immortality?
now i like to think of:
the type-writter: and how i might require
proof-reading... to correct me...
that's ever hardly necessary:
i can do that myself...
but the plague of self-erasure...
by mere chance!
           then watching a 1963 andy warhol video:
eat...
then watching a hart crane video:
whereby no contemporaries seem to
speak... just the elders...
but it's not that...
i like how he has become a man
so completely: human...
by a showcase of anecdotes...
clearly an anecdotal man...
i'm tired of being rational:
    in between herr sapiens and
herrschwine similis...
i'm tired of the safety ******
between me and the 19 century
abyss... i'm tired of the beginning
in ape...
i'm tired... once upon a time
i might have been this tired
but at the same time given a sly-of-hand
of having poker-invigoration
to toy-up-with-hey-presto for
the mind to metaphor in gymnastics:
a quasi telekinesis...
an audience of stones, shouting
at mountains without really needing
to know why no echo bloomed...
then of course i knew i would
require caves...
it's all rather pitiful... this...
staging of a voice... perhaps an audience...
it's truly three-dimensional:
and by that...
it's borrowing on never-finding...
a cushioned little breath of forest...
something: all of this "thing"
whether it's cultural relativism...
whether the geocentric est. shaken
by the heliocentric blurp...
or the gynocentric: feed the altar of
your birth...
otherwise castrated out you go:
but pandering the voices
of homosexuals: it's not like...
it will necessarily be deemed angst riddled...
the over-stated obvious...
i just lost a poem because
of my fat fingers...
i would die for a typewriter and a spelling
mistake: a proof-reader...
self-
      self- beckoning employed prefix
one man toys with a hydra
of expectations...

i think i remember something
from the original...
  something about spacing
and how i look at poems: not necessarily
read them...

a congested myopia / claustrophobia
of paragraphparagraphparagraph...
how i would start my verses
thin at the top...
and wait for them to bulge come
the nearing of the end...

how... scandinavians write sparingly...
without the need to double that
sparingly into a haiku...
that they write a hiatus-esque
"comorbidity" of wording(s)...

something along these lines...
to write a "poem" is to...
sometimes forget to read:
a visual fetish... almost ****-esque...
to look: and not read
in linear / cascade focus...

of note: i do remember this...
what the hell happened to...
henry parland... to henry parland...
i was drinking a cider
and i know that it was raining...
it was impossibly important
for it to be raining...

i said... that you can't write a melody...
to "counterfeit" the sound
of raining -
not the sound of falling rain:
simply... raining...
it's not a polyphony...
but it somehow is...
        you can't exactly...
you can't: but can...
which is that: not exactly... write
a lyric for the sound that encompasses
the sound of raining...
but it's not like...
the choicest of orchestral finicky:
can't exactly summon the violins...
or... tame the drums:
orchestra and the drums...
jazz in its quintet
doesn't really 'elp... ******* either...

IFER vs. IVER... clearly the latter...
phonetically...
but as it stands:
it's still either aether -
E'FER / E'VER and 'effin'
                      falafel eiffel...
                    e (morse count, do the dot dot...
hyphen) feral! theta thou!
- veering into ALVOU...
written: although...
  and you'd need to extend that first
vowel... no diacritical marks in
english... so... insert a vowel!
AULVOU! ah... better... much much! better!

new thought: no need for paragraphs:
- sputnik plate nuanced...
and therefore spinning, too...

thank god!
it passed the beijing censor critique!
half of which is me being
paranoid: and half of which is me
being perfectly adaptive...
the mongols are an elsewhere...
they're rigid halal butchers
and are not beijing sorting
packages omnivores...
so no doggy dog-eat-dog salutes!
if china was a germany...
and vietnam was saint anders
fault...

     and i were an ego fault worth
a ******* doughnut!
yes... i might gresticulate
at imitation cwy-bab
in this foreign tongue of:
VELSH!
when... no tetragrammaton
sire needed...
enough of the demiurge and
the genius pockets of critique
when the parasites are being
investigated...

     a scaffold of bones...
arriving at a muscular brittle...
grieving use of brick...
this tenure of muscular exhaustion.