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Perfume   
05:37pm 09/08/2009
  In the dark there is a whistle marking your timed sequences
pollen
harvested in summer like a fish
in an arena of mosquito doors		  
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Silence, healing   
02:06pm 01/08/2009
  These things just add weights to the world. They're good for that but
they're not the reason I'm here. What I need to do is.
I must have spent 10 whole moons leaning against the wall
not taking eyes off. Things there. Unbound, palm-sized, walled over.
The street-window and muscles and fruits.
There are a few things you think about only because
you think about them. The following for Rimbaud on the wall
I don't speak and I think of nothing but love is.
Flight. Cellophane. Cellular marketing. Like popcorn
in the library.		  
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Waiting   
07:05am 16/07/2009
  In fire, replace. She tries most truthfully for flavor, their arms like wax. A turtle softly.

Purely then we notice the staring in lines of wood. The pigeons here speak only of green foxes. Foxes with roses in their fur and asteroids of flesh peering over their fates. Filtered over the side like lonely orange juice.

The clouds of far-off lice.

I am like the color of the sun. The bronze is a liar.		  
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11:25am 30/06/2009
  The girl in blue gathers you

You continue to be intimidated by your not-unlike lesson.		  
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Poppies/You Look Like You Live on a Fish   
11:56am 07/06/2009
  Do you know what's all over the place these days
the incidences
pure spoon

Forevermore the firecrackers mangled towards freedom bewilderingly, palely, stolen from others' minds a lost faking this winter. The stag was a hat in supermarket aisles. The donkey

was worn
privately

in your ear.		  
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Feeding them Orchids   
10:51am 04/06/2009
  You've only met
and the asphalt rings salty paper envelope tears in a mother a norm
nearly all the broken bats here come from Nan
a correlation between banks
your iris and the profound handle
for fire and dawn.		  
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Jade wooden boards   
10:07am 27/05/2009
  For a pearl-maker's sake, rest here in brilliance
In a pearl-maker's state the ashes and human liking just a little
Ask the daughter the danger of sheep's eye colored storm
Asking the daughter the window in your ear
mistake

Especially the moon, we moon
Fishers in escape buttons

and the only peaceable mistake in the loneliest the loneliest sparkle
the only sparkle in landed boxes
buttons
buttons
buttons

Stumbling, you realize that the effort made to grow a tomatoe is equivalent to a bowl of thorns in your stomache, to the feeling of a young person's arrears. These feelings lengthen while talked about on the floor. This is intolerably harsh for them. The only acorn the acorn of artichokes. The only heart the heart of fawn. In Anartica.		  
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the natural consistency of things   
07:06pm 07/05/2009
  Need I say more, my archlight of words. A watermelon on a pier turning avidly the color of strings is a bandage
to strangers' arms in avalanche, makeup slowly to a pine cone
waves slowly at passing
at tears then in blue and white stripes

the blue is a pale brown the color of summer.		  
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Fiddle-head Ferns   
11:28am 02/05/2009
  minimum time is dangerous
minimum time forward bending time
pale orange cells not worth numbering
more and more's the cloudy with us

i am wearing a mire of sad belongings, left miserly waiting for the storm of pale lilies, in a life of making turtles square. push back this lace feeling just a little, and your flash bulbs squeal in the fire. The Sunday in the air in glorious coves.

The coves are various as milk. As milk they seem to stumble and turn vague, an armful of pale sirens.

You are crying.		  
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Rosemary Salamander   
09:19am 25/04/2009
  August in marigold
you drove the lamplight
peeking drowned almonds pure the chrysanthemum

chasing needles

dear lavender, your pales retract
where is the hypertext in this organized melancholy? It is lit underneath with furs and furs, a barrage for yes, men feel the persistence of chasing flies in their totalitarian mirrors. It is non-relational, like powder forest. A muse and a moss-laden lake in two tones of fire, making up to art for faking a deer through a shortcut.

Proper sounding vibrations leak their chances necessitating barbarous gears. The owl sleeps in a fancy of mice and farmers, and a golden carriage cries throwing thorns outside the windows meaningfully in starts and stops of our videos. The thorns are caught in little puddles of silk.

There are sweaters and sweaters for warming ink. Pillars and face-masks for canceled appointments. And a madrigal in two parts, a burning in the tree, the window forced open in a gasp of cerulean satin.

Oh poison
how involved you are
with kidnapping choices
pincer-like and fat.		  
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Chairs   
11:19am 19/04/2009
  The capability to burnt bad feelings. Pale in insect. In that velvet, pouring stones. My sleeves caught in all the air. Salt and sweet stairs with lime underfoot. I am the care-giver, I am carp, and unemployed.

Who can digest paint. Incompact and marveled at, you tore pale combs of starts. This week and the next, the grocery awaits in clumps.

You are one and living.		  
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grace incarnadine   
07:52pm 13/04/2009
  tomatoe clown

The nearest chests eve hindsight, propelled forward by freight trains their arms. Ancient, in fire houses. The countertops stop the flowing liquid with reaching eyes. Zippers and barbers.

And however believers matter to tomatoe clowns their spines the bones of leaves the gecko clacks. The zipper catches.

Close it, the refrigerator, your arm. Light withers in your spoon. Want/not-want, a line a clothing-line of silence across your hangings stiffen and blacken in the wind of tongues your dearlings pale and crisp in the hearts of your fingers, and you lose magic in carpet-long lines of moss across your forehead, a star the finch. In market-stalls across your back your potatoes
fall
and you swim across to safety, your
mysteries
de-laced, non-figured, pearl-pink and
sandpapery.		  
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Eastern bluebird   
08:04am 13/04/2009
  Today is what, the day of light geese, without a trace, a falling of the f.
It is the milk and it is not. Forgotten, covered a vague pink, lashed at the shore. The house in work. The floors in mess. The branches trodden to pieces like the stripes in your elbow.

Following the events of yesterday night
a helicopter appeared blase in crayon ink
spilled two quarters of the way between
your heart and your neighbor's dog
I hope that this clarifies matters
And one of the blue.

Two hours ago she drove by here. I said, there is only the balloon merchant left now to viscerally descend your predicate. Let me know when to enchant him and I will make sure he has your flower number on a slip of charcoal inside his cheek. A tiny, knife-thin, sliver of simmering shadow with which to rub your eyes.

There, compare that, you magistrates. Your hall of wax.

Flour.		  
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Charcoal-Chattering of Knives   
07:39am 08/04/2009
  Perhaps in erased rivers. Your veins overcooked. A bar in your eye like a cloak.

The rib turned 40 degrees under the cover of eyelashes. You waded through the eyelashes in order to discover. The stranger and thinner you are.

Anyone interested in the little leaves of room.		  
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Picturing them   
10:51am 30/03/2009
  Only a mincing pike your softness.

You totaled the life-grain. A color gone badly masked.

The rain was feverish. You lost your hands in the capacity to eat mangoes.

In the train except the rain, perhaps the rain.		  
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butternut squash   
09:48am 28/03/2009
  Although marigolds there swelter in your shrouding, cure them a little. Your carpet is like a bed of eyes. The cats licked, and the feet.

Heart-felt prisoners in escapees of dawn, crunching your fern-and-powder patience, you realize. Their limbs.

Messages were taken from the flashbulbs for a jewelry of mischance.		  
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Undocumentation   
04:46pm 26/03/2009
  Paintings there verified torn ever-lasting constructs of peace and orange paper monsters. The monsters wore paper and married paper. This was the only fire.

Of clovers and marble ships. Waving and waving to the construction paper corporate buildings. We were twins then, on that shine of river, that river the foundations of cross. Shining, yes. If only two blues had carried our alliances across at the pace of frozen dirt. We would have wept slow tears at this turn of the letter, the turn of stew, torn in half.

My paper hearts in your taxis, the allowances of mud. I forever forget then the blue lines channeling your poor balanced ball-point.

If mummies, then chocolate. If little girls full of pins and stored away ribbons pulling at the handles of pine drawers full of brain, then slowly, slowly, slowly, take apart this mouth, how it came about, the snow in the thick balanced bunches and. And the migraine that started it all, see if you want to cry out of your skin. Your own and hers. Like a flower bleating in the wind.		  
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Paper boats   
04:41pm 26/03/2009
  So long, and all that face. It only places my answers vertically, not genealogically, tailor-like. There is a paint.

We could, if we were alive.

And there are a million and two flavors of mice in your pupils, scattering when the pale of words sheds on them, from afar or near, from pristine or from the epistolographical center, the fears, the terms--from NN to...this is a letter of thanks. Thanks and thanks. For coloring, for smiling out of many teeth, for, what is it. Browned alive.

Does this answer your initial query, does this form some kind of light with which to tear your tongues in their hands? Is it.		  
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Geese leaving   
10:37am 24/03/2009
  Marry, so well-behaved then like a circlet to a pear of infinite gratitude, fire in the bracelet. Bracelet. Bracelet. Crow. Inside this hand have no supper, no ants, no meaning for wavering illusions in, if you'd like to see what we can be. The geese in a jar.

No winding twinkling needle pockets of solar fractals.
The reason for station shoes.

No living, no fear, and no, no, none at all even cherry.

Opaque, you. Always a tour, a nest of wild animals beating slowly in rhyming meter the meter your spine in four quarters. Nonsense, leaving.

Your bounty, O chief of lots, so square as to be solid, so humpbacked as soy-sauce, so linking, leaking, like the generosity of pears. "This is the necklace string of time!"		  
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Chlorophyl in the Stem   
10:19am 24/03/2009
  Nonetheless shimmered in yards of boat-string.

Favors.

Invoilably, and of course, with an evidentiary value that exceeded this end. There lapped in flavored pacemakers, charm. Hold on, there's the bite, the marmalade.

The reasons for your sleeping patterns and for your reasons of fish. Cast down and followed by a sip of blue wine, papered and skinless. Seems, madam? Your manumission awaits, in large shadows like a jar housing a thief, thieves, thieves in scarves. This period is your home, under the camphor tree, under, the stairlit doorframe, where your mind awaits like crouching dogs, pears in their mouths, their heads like seeming rainbows, rock-thin. I pull myself back when I think I want to say, I love you, too. That sounded like a duck.

Increasingly, the maple.		  
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