n igh t r h ym e

c arl jung’s phrase
++ the rain

a
toll
by
a grap h em e

on
del ay

i NT er lu d e

do beware

++

the
chrismago

e
l

_i

s
e

h

o

u

c

e

k

ni ght rhyme

I had such energy to wife hat
When I came to move toward rest the
Bell that barters rope for sleep
Always smelled like piss. I’d think

Is this the lark that willed Tourette’s 
To bet and border, no doubt, to lose 
Ancient? Or wet the hour that’s
Lucid drunk. I am not clear on it.

To be totally distant... 
To remove oneself from the market where sits food... 

I walk along the Kalamazoo
River branched focus the jewels on spots real play
To me the trees out-candied frontispieces 
alluded to from Sweden 
I’ll ask 
All below
If what I want is not the first sword 
To be removed from here 
Nods the first stone

carl jung’s phrase

In the lighter passages of a cloud’s half-humor
in the wilted gun
in the turn-and-fell fitz spun
order in the removed piece
in the heart of glass
in the soul of wit
in the fill of ardor
in the hole of it
in time four
the first toss
in took, started
in house bread
in demand
in-curious
in block. What saddled grand for.
What else
Dull harp piss?
The joy of deluding yourself into out train?
Some parking meters?
It is Carl Jung’s sweater
It is Carl Jung’s phase
But you forgot, by nearly saying you have you have forgotten
the old switchery
And the cut of dumb letters
that grew so
you have barely touched in that eternity

the rai n

You may believe in impact
One believes in this.
A frog that has depressed a bird cannot hold the welt it gave it
Unless they kiss, where to lack they may, the one-two punch of sight is ready to be field
and they, much rather to bleat than to stomp said
demure to out-stead holidays. And weathered rain.
And made real snuff.
And took two hearts together, sand, and turned
doctors likened all replays to such rain, too.
The rain which had just topped o’er…
The rain which continued to unveil in the hopes of solar switch…
The rain which was a bead…
The rain which saw a death…
The rain which was a witness
to the fix and folders, to the little
houses on the roofs…

a toll by a grapheme

Her native town: the universe, and her native view: the pains
(her bad story the stature of he)
And her native figure:
                                     the rocks

Hers was a loose unsettled gown that draped an isle from where she was taking
and fraught of news that will said fought the whole sad tired beast

It was in-stapling.
The grift gab older

She came to die. It was Saturday, and the trees had varied frills and throws
settled about their leaves.
An open space was cleared where one could make out
trays of mushy bread, half-eaten pomegranates, raisins, and the pelts of rabbits
who had mistaken a trap in the wood. On the side of one, drear to the lit-off
hamlet, a roach had hatched and was busying itself
with making a bed in the fur.

She raised to touch it.

Ouches went thorough to the knee, as often casts
roil to the padlock, a wrist in fashions certain felt
the graded clop, the armor, glee, and belts of random certainty
run down the arbor.

It was a spree.

The roof went off.

She had just ran in tired health and now that death
had spelled its knoll inside of her she need not know. How. But the gladded
man approached her.

on delay

There was a click
The guard went out
Every inch of grass was rain
Every blade of grass was bent
Every glade, touched down the water
Every nightstand, purses. Our lips? Sod of forecast
Rain dumb to the worst of ten real colds
And spent through ire’s first run in the swift romances. I set it
once. Then down in
style. Want to carry hurts won’t and I’ll want to carry—
             like an angel’s rash, touched together and firm
             like a newborn Boston Terrier who’d run outside but for the doors—locked,
whose sad foyer, the rope to calm her down, a mote of heat in the tent of envoys
and the settled toy bird.

interlude

Who should be, watch the horn
Know thyself, cut-throat penny
Itch some well, lose some bad
Distinct plans, distant dads
No May clots, norm male hires
Word sum bells, work sum tires
Inching trays, saw rays blue
Born is had, it isn’t new

do beware

You never had the baby
You haven’t documented any trips
You went with her to the museum but you didn’t make a sign about it, therefore she’s dead
Then you walked along the Louvre at night in the festive showers did it all framed
and saw the hot spots, the coats, the blue hotels, the people marching shop
to shop. Soon I’ll lay. Candelight
will lick the foreskin of two blown towels
nestling on the floor of my bedroom apartment. There will be news
about something as there always
is the tone of cruel for tell the lesson that is higher shared / wants to be
for weakening. For slowing up
the test of harder first
is one the test of harder first
the test of don
do be wear

the
ch rismag o

I took my self down, wearily
Off the hook. Settlers
framed the wilted glass, stock photos curiously lined linens as if stenciled first then drawn
A cobalt pencil
rued the hall where Schadenfreude, my mist, curio, eyed
Sven and shot through half-points
like they were my friend. That was my god. Meanwhile
I was listening in, the talk of true and gone valid
misprints from the local paper were delusions fair but
this said more of said drama’s food, not of my friends, who ate
and drank and laughed from petri dishes. There was a bend
which wrapped itself around the island
in the center of the kitchen
a jog of placemats set up on round
and six fanned, folded ice creams a little to the outside—
To touch the night
in branded ministry or jet off forward to knew some waves
the quote that beat to candor I would
jolt from my speech, pray ‘cause it, night
gone of course, or something else entirely: work,
dissimulation, photos
of the ego dressing
salad, peanuts from Spain. I went
outside to see the light
in the position of the subtle dream, saw less instead
and brandished eyelids to what I’d thought of: forces, bad ones,
wreaking song havoc in the mid dawn phrase
proportioned not to karma’s wheel.
Could I again refirm myself by more dear nuts
I’d have started, have drug the wheel
to windows and dealed open carts of suns—I would not run
except for places whole of love and farce then
except for fun.