from Neolamprologus Brevis, Shelldweller

4.

I just had to. It’s like the computer has downloaded me into its bio
Metric causeway. A stuffed gull tilts its head, eye’s you. The watch
Still wears its price tag, yet the second hand’s shot! It’s all happening
Too fast! yet ‘it’s hard to say whether anything’s moving’ or, here’s a clock

That wiggles. Its ‘click’ is digitally enhancing my hairline. In place of cries, the                                     
The newborn sighs; best spank it. Not unlike Bartleby’s not. The teamwork
Sucked tonight; fans slouching back to their crummy jobs, factories of lore.
Right about now is when I tend to here, an echocardiogram. Some variant

On a line, any adds a kind of cohesion yet belatedly post-avant play to
What might otherwise unravel entirely of its own blobby centrifugal
Force-work, if you will. I took notes during the event in order to prevent

The inevitable. The first attempt at making something of it failed, naturally,
So I bludgeoned it with blog-o-sphere. It’s like history, sneezing hard
Or, your cell phone has made a livingroom of my commonwealth

from Interstitials or, Slack Time

financial mercantilism
taut tense and terrific
chives in whooping cream

—to have that place
                                                                     expanse
where one
might wander for a sincere stretch
               
the constant noise n sight of cars
                                            receding
                                            rceding
                                            rcding
                                            rcdng
                                            rcdg

it’s the alternator, stoopid

turn left into oncoming killer traffic
the car’s honk bends as it speeds
                                                                     by

 When they fund the military they’re funding t
[over bridge / over dale]
                         he AUC

waiting
in the left lane
for the car ahead
to turn, swerve
                                            right
                                            in front
                                            of blaring
                                            gold SUV

we have flags
leave me alone

virological dot . . . begin evasive elliptical maneuvers . . . do you know where your dots are tonight . . . urgent: connect the dotage

the third dot signifies                    
                                                                wimp factor

place elsewhere
                                [at register / in the racks]

innocent spore: really, what harm
has it ever done
        enzensberger

           acute strains. . . [of] . . . global goodwill
               flourishes . . . [of] . . . firm evidence
a fantasy wish-list . . . [of] . . . greater flexibility

shirt 10-12 medium
dress 10 medium
pants 12 medium

all dogs must be hand controlled

good                      morning

   we don’t need a key

“‘A good poet doesn’t select his materials.
what is there to select? IT is.’”
                                                                [down the aisle / in the air]

entering
delaware park at its lincoln pkwy n rumsey rd
entrance

the low reaching canopy of leaves creates a door
like affectation
the gravely trail into dark trunks
“of maples and men”
                       draped
                       in                                                        shade
clank n ping of “hammer on steel”
of workers erecting willie’s                                         stage

the Buffalo Parks Dept.
gathers its leaves in a roaming truck

 “‘one of the things that make a plant GO’”

the ribbed pattern
of a tractor wheel
imprinted
in the mud below
a blue pesticidal

screen
$18.03 on gas

clumps of stench
float on the eastern tip of Hoyt lake
across from “Forest Lawn Cemetery”
                [under shower / clipping toes]                  

“what music this is”

it’s not that poetry is rejected
by the laboring society
it’s that poetry rejects
     the laboring society

Marcy Casino
Rose Garden
Shakespeare Hill
Hoyt Lake
   [under scalpal
poetry
        in the gas]
Others
This
Kathleen Fraser

“‘To book as in to foal. To son.
Those wobbly legs’” (16).