hi

I am falling asleep.
I see you
It is a tired sunday.
You're a rory thing to do.
Tomorrow I will wake up twice, once for each time you died.
And in the evening there will be a sunrise.

Orbits

Drum lines have multiplied into
rhythm sections of shark fin

Philosophy of Poetry

At the limit
imposed by infinity I find that slowly
withering correspondent corpses shed more
light on the bloated morbidity of language
than on any shift in the measure or medium
of this millenium. I Punctuate because that
is who I am. I believe in Oxford Commas. When
I die, my obituary will capitalize my name, and
profoundly place each period before a double space.

Di

Evidentiary research remarks facility in

Take 2:
Snap slickened slice, black pryex cannisters
schlop and shred we read that theremin sound

Racks of tracked and marked masks mill and
twist correlated with arcs and signs
symbols denoting, through complex combination,

the particular shade of leather I can cut from you
the parabola of your folded knee
the bezier surface denoting the subtle deformation of
the crest of your right cheekbone

INBRED basilisk chimeraize in clades, folding inward
exacting fixed precision contortions with cropped
catalysts

ACT in short stutters: GAC,
TAG (you are it for this small body)
CAT(aclysm for thistledown thrumming slowly away)
don't overexert

stripped of body of late I crisp slickly, wet ash
corroborating the snowy descriptions, soaked in a liter
of my favorite vodka

Sequence

Thoroughly and one and two. Faster still there sneaking under helix and
small tributaries aggregating to unsimulated sun-splash

Were simple clusterings folded again? I repeat myself
Were smple clusterings folded again? I have forgotten

Tracked and folded and flashed, hashed, pyrogenetic blast
darwin whipped to flame on the operating table of blender and bug eyed
microscope-ing igor accruing more and folding it blast by blast
under the hood of the thousands and crackling with current lets
big blue deeply drive and pass the splices paste the pieces brightly
back to one

Tin and Trouble

There is thin track wickering lines through city.
Lines through cracking stacking thorn and stumble
once upon once upon once the thin track wickering
and slack track slips and trips fast

A bad poem

Gold spun the Logrus and slipping tripped its lines.
Fashioned pattern pallid points the last sweet tracks
on carotid stunts and making mast the last of new and
moored the making placing pacing drakes to orbit none.

Freeman fashioned most unabashed marking mix with labelled tongue
undermining fortune finding fastened by the clattered strum
last and most the practiced post makes mastered augury undone.

I am cordial ever more and making last the past must be.