His Tax Is for Vision (an Antigaze)
But in the basement a thing
slit the first piano hands
could make. No ghost
is not this kind.
Well it hardly
shifted the righteous
show. The city was often
more whole but never
astounding. In the deft portrait of explanation
he returned a chartered box
I will need years before you. It’s you I will
face within the recent wave
of exotic clergy. I need to water
the land in the little bones of their mouths.
We help the whole breathy ensemble
who never tells and by affect
sobs outdated and encased. In private proposals
are numbers arriving to
the chambers of the guard shower
producing the aroma
of a body in the window of an image. Strange
me in their haint
contained. In a letter clean an ocean
great is an exception which feels like including
this light itself. It was all his to eat. Perhaps
his tax is for vision and funds the probe of the sucker coasts.
We are not
always us but any version
is space here.
Imagine in the school a thing that does not beg to wreck.
Lean to me as in flux
or in flux or in flux. It’s
to know like a dead. Existentially
it tars. The poet
was to be a poet; to be a poet was to further
amble oceanward with troubles
well into the crucible,
whom they record in the accurate order. This terminated
no one who was not marked silent. This said
he had it seems for years before been part boat.
To learn this was a joy, the smell of scallion
in my high ears. Prized and housed
in your turning camera I am
to conduct the long room of needless success
before the media. My modes: God, the me in which that, the inside of, and the American.
I am looking to settle appropriately. He is going
with the chewed up situations.
Guitar with rose: The way we know
shared hells. The baser moon
was the only person literal all year. More dour
am I than the therapist.
Take any look against the blackness of astronomy
and discern the human turret, its amorous shower
deepens the cities’ bad sky
momentarily. Night parts; for us
dawn is vanishing. Like space
I am momentary as a moment. We are in the first
aesthetic thread proceeding metaphorically or morally
down into the air — for the second levitating, but real
orders come Monday. No things in fact
matter inside a glass. Revenants exist.
Of that we can keep an antigaze. Not all the is-ness.
Think of simile as an example of affable occultation
under the very wide rain
propriocepting the kitchen of what. Suspicions
of certain forms within the disconforming. But I
untrain the world that it was wrong. It has been
situations, by turns charming, being
millions, its pasts a still flailing
sound, short of the bad
prominent kind of good. See the fortuitous
storms around our fingers? A moment of rose
here pulls upwall me.
For your heart, leave a human
in the witness climate of obfuscation. You
can keep up among the analytic woundings. Medicate the fact
right out of the mirror of thought. The language mover,
I suck the world where I am verily noticing
your bare choice of first marrow. Do a figure of losing.
Our compulsions, too, priced as want. A dressy
restaurant with the senator best admired, on whom like a disease pearlike
gel our urges. Even as we innervate the house
the privating wind grows a party of subject. Thank
what is feeled. I had always helped to burn the boxes
for humans to find their men compressed with desire,
part concept hyperperson, part
cultural in the deflation of many perceptions. We have to see
the craze with our curse’s name. Cigar sheer
glints off the attached batwings
but I came at creation derelictly like a child star
passes to the upper ledge
in the same light. Claim the blood wells from the guitar,
the sound of which we cannot
too much smoke. The sundered types of the world
heart sex for to destroy the minding.
We just gives bodies. On the lit walk I part,
stretch, then more orange, and day
turns to be resonant. The lines quote all of the text
more like an end. Iron bleeds thought and is silent.
The woman lost perceives her own
faithroom like a certain vilified effort
though but no one writes. It just arrives to us
proper with wine, intimate and keeping
without us. You arrive through the bare wax into the mountain
remains of this week. I follow your trail-less dollars
from shit through to a spirit of glorification. Too hard a drink I
am out the object’s of hands. Every sense of spring
flies direct. Its bless panics. I am alone like an arrow.
This mimicry clouds my drink. It was forever a sculptural opening,
the connection pool of being to the ghosts
of the poem, bigger in dreams, mortifications
and replanted bodies. Out of its little needles
they seep into your secretions.