THE END
Good morning bacon smell
from the kitchen.
Sky through a boarded-up
garage roof.
Arendt asks where you go
when you think.
Humming I’ve got a tiger back at home.
How about nine o’clock
Thursday.
Typesetting as
post-economic labor.
A sonics you might settle
into.
No bright line between
reading and sleep.
Sirens heading south. Your
slouch.
Arrived at the corner as
the walk light flicked off.
Leaf smells stronger though
the season should be past.
How might you graph his
body relative to other bodies.
The plane’s trajectory hard
to chart from sound only.
The mystery of the
irregular polyhedron.
All the windows cracked.
Triangles of roofs like
stage sets.
Finding the space where a
sentence will go.
Good morning scrapings and
clanks.
Weekly resistance to the
same writing task.
Series of rectangular
boxes. Maybe a home.
Saying this is my sister’s friend.
Poetry cannot be just an
affiliation.
Filtered light through the
blue curtains.
Historicity of this body.
Can you read necessity
through this work.
Arriving at the subway at
the peak of conversation.
The need to make money
sometimes invisible.
I lost all my footage when
the phone crashed.
The prism disrupting its
own light beam.
Barely mediated was what I
called it.
The scarf smells like her
for years after her death.
Why don’t you buy the book
for book club this time.
Walking to metabolize
language.
This is not the reason why
people make art.
Sound of the digital camera
shutter closing.
THE END
It’s lame to keep saying I hate it here.
Sui generis
something or other.
Walked around the reservoir
unamused.
All the light comes in from
the corner.
Try not to fall off your
bike.
Coming up against a
disciplinary boundary.
It’s time to shut up and
get to work.
First potatoes then onions
then eggplant.
Flashing off a cell phone
screen.
Would we be happier if we
drank more.
Edward Said’s penetrating
eyes.
Experimented with
affectlesness.
The water looked bright and
clean from a distance.
Always going over bridges.
I don’t want to use your
internet connection.
Another day another line.
Why don’t you say it in
Latin.
Narrated the wedding on my
Emoji keyboard.
You stayed to watch the
lights change slowly.
You spread out your scarf
like a blanket.
It cost eighteen dollars
plus ten for prosecco.
Then I walked home carrying
all of it.
Sometimes you think of a
person all the time for no reason.
I was always taping my
neckline to my bra.
You’re no special
snowflake.
The art market as a means
of justification.
Bored but canonical. All
the bodily limits.
Suddenly we were the last
ones in the restaurant.
As far as the subway will
go.
Waited in line to enter the
dimly lit room.
Sew your name into your
clothes.
Keep adjusting the dosage.
That dress looked better in
the panoramic photo.
A black and blue cheek.
Experimenting with the
popular.
This isn’t one you’re going
to walk off.
Left the pears and paper at
home.
Laid out discursive ground
rules.
If a poem is a landmass.
A labor historian bent over
company records.
A soothing British
causality.
I didn’t want to be part of
your movement.
Forehead grease smudge on
the subway window.
Astounded by the riches of
the gas station.
Small houses. Dark night.
Places where uptown means
elevation.
I wasn’t thinking about the
other inside.
Incorrect antecedents.
Thermostat as purely
palliative.
The season changed without
our notice.
Metallic streamers in the
Mexican bar.
It’s mostly a problem of
bodily leakage.
Dated institutional
architecture.
Photoshoot in the
courtyard.
Caffeination next to
divination.
No future.
THE END
Letter to a now-lost future
self.
Why don’t you think about
Foucault when you’re fucking.
Crossing the bridge.
Recrossing the bridge.
Fan in the window all
winter long.
Some kinds of city trees
above the neighbor’s roof.
2 Ring Dings a Colt 45 a
pregnancy test.
Sky always higher and
brighter out the front door.
Bicycle retired for the
season.
Later you will learn how to
read the poem.
Keep a notebook of walks.
Smelling all the leaves.
It’s showtime when you
cross the river.
Some historical skies. That
ship has sailed.
A point in history where
trauma manifests as event.
New England-y aesthetics of
land meeting water.
You will like me less if
you know what I’ve been reading.
Problems of sovereignty
become problems of affiliation.
The part of the song called
a burden.
Basketball game in the
street.
What kinds of life does
your body conceal.
What if a poem is a
cancerous mass.
“Living heiroglyphics” or
living ideograms.
A certain lyric compression
occurs.
Clanks and hisses of steam
heat turning on.
8 hours on the couch with
the laptop.
A kind of permeability of
the self.
Fountain shaped like a
whale’s tail.
A creature is not
necessarily a monster.
It’s not supposed to happen
like that.
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