I’ve forgotten how to write.
Perhaps I never knew how.
I’m writing now am I not?
This is not writing. What
is it. The moon is full. THE
MOON IS FULL. I relinquish
all responsibility for every
thing. The moon is my
excuse. I surrender.

the undergrowth

the keys are fuzzy. as some dense under
growth of language seeks to take over,

mute the lights. overhead an airplane growls
like a wind-up tiger. the cynicism i know is

there pours into the air. is it the weather
the end of the weekend, end of all things

we’ve never known? can’t even make my
self invisible (my greatest super-power

shriveled by the green hidden in the Num
Lock). I Tab over, Pause and Break Up.

Rew…Let?

he said. is that

rue as in Blvd.

of bro-

ken dreams? or

that which you

rue, with wrung

hands? was that

Let as in rent?

or short for letter?

or maybe con

permiso. but…

(oh!) spelled as said:

rewlet, not roué,

(some Rimbaud),

but rou as in

roulette — because

such wicked spell-

ings are always

a gamble.

stuck

very little to say. like grass. a deal lighter.

flocking was once de rigeur. at times. fortune

holds the cards. switch patterns. forbearance.

i said flocking. not f___ing. i said nothing but

that line is a horizon. the sun is uck. glottal

stop. meaning? what gets stuck in censure.

in words

just to see where it has gone
storm rolling in, as your fingers.

touch the crest of my collar bone.
shoulder, where the scar draws

a line. another scar at the throat.
knee, where beside him i fell, tried

to excise the hurt with a knife

edge. where now

your fingers…

where I

allow you…

ideology

assumes.

language must
speak for body

as it were

dumb?

but then,

this

gesture

am i polytextual?

storytelling

a space of waiting. after a day. confessing to darker
eras. now. we are made characters drawn with lines

pulled from “personal” history. we don’t know why the
scare quotes; just that they pose a doubt and yet fly

tell me whence a pink mermaid, or why a black buckle
gets someone off. or why the dough rises with such

managed yeast. i know kitchens that swelter so hot
some Alice is bound to ruin a batch. Pig baby bays

like a hound. Crow turns day into night into a cul-
de sac. That’s how it is when the days are listing

and the islands rise and fall, and one draws oneself on
a promontory. The lines are sketchy now, as uncertain

weather gathers over the doldrums. the sargasso sea
is also the title of a book. this may or may not be rain.

did i forget how to write?

who is listening?

someone sees

something propels

sets logos

then forgets before

the next line

each word a box

unpacked

[ I ]

am not

inside

although a figure

may present itself

for your entertainment