fond
with
p r ope r
t y

nutshell
++ beatitud
e //

net of
thus

vari e ty with
out
qua Lit i
e s

u tt e r

l
o
g
_ a
n

f

r

_ y _ _

_ _ _ _

f
o
n
d

w i t h

p
r
o
p
e
r
t
y

Lewd fortune does its cute attunement,
It says, Yes please I’ll have blank thanks
So much. So much land’s a fuck. It does
The permits, means the soil. Exchanges
Like a yawn. As a child I feared terribly
The stuck hinge I learned tetanus made
Of a jaw. I pictured a farmer in costume
Big loopy mouth hung well ajar because
I guess a farm’s where the rust and barb
Wire are. Have you lately gazed tenderly
Into an open cut?—was it yours?—best
For my purposes is if it is another’s cut.
Better too if the studied calm you look
With to project the tenderness was not
Meant to ease their hurt but to cement
The hurt as real? That your goal is not
Even to tend their need but to let your
Need to tend be known, not from some
Selfish impulse on its own but so their
Knowing provided for the cut one some
More steady and profound balm. Some
Are known to feed on other’s pain as a
Way to earn the data for a new genre of
Hurt.

I bet it’s dumb. Gore mauls time open,

Which is pretty dumb when you really
Think on it, since time’s the unit thru
Which wealth amasses, passive as a dad.
The better get
To do harm so
Gradually that only each who feels its
Flood (—in their blood, or guts, skin, or
The like—) trusts the pain they really
Feel, that each,
The theys, feel
All, individual. The most lauded calling
Of to-day is
That of harvesting from the body’s land
This embodied disembodied body’s pain.

nu t
s h e l
l

I would begin demands to things, illegibly, before facing up to it, a total thrust of life
as sensible, a front for warding off. The screw that turns time’s thumb is sheared off.
And I’m fiddling with the lucite’s lock, on a hinge, a deictic If
that listens for the dimness of a proof’s blood folded up in the crux of a limb.
They’ve given me this sweatshirt that my shoulders note the felt of, my back
taut and neck dropped in to accentuate the drape I’m told is for getting it on trend
with a family of eleven networked keyboards circa 1990 IBM
that the seven twigs plunked with dew still on and bent and singed just for this purpose say
is key to growing marketshare in a plurality of tosses.
The discourse: a treaty that a trick of light undoes. When I peer off toward what seems to be
its edge’s lip, I meet in me a whirl of faces looking aside and smirking intermittently, a grimace I can weave
a smile from. But do I want to? It’s like, if it were my heart, or not that but a hot lung pulled from me, being
mindful to take off the sweatshirt first and only slip my head back thru it once the blood has crusted nice
enough, there may then be a way to. I could regain a fond adherence to the medium.
It’s not like I have used them much. There’s something tedious in the bulging cells and too-deep redness
of the tendrils running wildly about, like it was something made in haste
and with a frankly sloppy lack of tenderness with limit and yet
pridefully compelled to come in under cost and for it to be, consistent with its aims, done on schedule.
Some things must be faced head on. So I leaned that way. Beside, I haven’t got a real desire to disobey
and in fact I trust the objects flanking me earn a conciliation’s sigh I’d guess, being teal, having a real great
texture that I couldn’t even begin, at first, to imagine—the kindly one, the type of crick I like sharing winks
with, not of intention but a mindfulness the bends in rivers lack but lift from thin tributaries meant to let time
broaden them. In the stream I see jokes flitting up like trout for gnats but helplessly, sillily, getting that
getting it is all part of the lure. Understanding that it isn’t reachable, that’s
clear. But, too, it’s, well, maybe the of of texture will snag on it yet still. Is it truly so off to see that a texture—
even a soft one!—has no texture, which of course it can’t—but does—that this texture may impress upon this
first supple so-thin slice of air? One’s distance to it is an If unfixed, transcribed and mappable
as when one, forced into the barest tip of noticing, must adjust a hand’s presence to the form
of compensation. But between these rank periods of, generally minute, adjustments and of fixities it is
distance that limiting becomes all too knowable a limn for, even if it had not been tallied up as such just yet.

My finest hook has in it a relatively fixed amount of barbs and also at any given moment, number of admirers,
but if these properties don’t hover in the cognition den I let thoughts into, they’re done. Not because I won’t
allow them, it’s just I bar from entrance the unknown. You get it. I could tell fast you liked my thumb’s
bend, but that’s just not enough, see. Who else may have been in
it, while attending to this so. That’s it. You see
the peril. It needs a contract with endlessness,
a idiot move, infinity, that can’t keep up, not ever.
My palms are both facing toward, on arms limp and dangling yet not without great care, the fingers all curled
slightly in as though gripping something limp and loosely, some hot weapon needing a worm’s carelessness
in order to preserve the static of its being lain as dormant, reacting inversely with its function to tear potential
in its waiting there where length is curled.
But there is no weapon my hands grip. Rather it’s a gesture’s metaphor. Well, an illustrative ideation, too, yes.
Now you can imagine not only the tilt of each my hands but the figure they imported to operate within to lure
their tilt in with just so, critical as I begin, in telling you, as I did, of the emblem that my totalised body did for
guiding all this that I’d rather not be doing. I’m stable again. I’m under a palm and lurid in my mind. And you
can and I hope will make visual the endpoint of the texture of the ripples sent thru 1 by 1 the thin slices of the
air that are so neatly piled as to feel and to jot down as so minor a result as that which is impressed—I can just
imagine it! so subtly, by the dint
of texture’s surfacing that 1 is 1, that one over there, that one I briefly saw far off over there, and my palm will
shade the that of what I saw, its dust upon your palm, that what it is is smiling there—
of’s fruit—, if plucked and absently and under what totalises this so, just being here.

b
e
a
t
i
t
u
d
e

Just imagine it, strung from wire
       (14 gauge)
to level with your sightline. The

ice encasing it engages in a, honestly pathetic, ritual of drips
imperceptible. Oh, you didn’t

notice? How do you know you
didn’t? Look now,
a purse cinched with bent lead pipe asway there,

the rib crease
of gesture

leaves sift
for preciousness that,                          is a sulfur
                                      if employed well,
ore for
smiles.
            Mill that ashes edit.
Torch of the trash bins.
Fastened to
the tin nail bone-hewn and looser in its punch-hole rawer to.

                          I’ve been in gumboots
                                      sifting a sewer
                                     from shortcake,
                                        a horsetooth,
                                        a fibre noose
                                         from oil dew,
                     that if the leather holds
                     I’ll have a weight to tug
the thread
up, parson,
to my name,
of Patience,
for apathetic fortune’s low horn tune.

net
of
t h u s

Curses and sausage.
Garish and porcine.
Bloodlines in syrup.
Lick at the fireapple.
Forced permutation.
Letting its trickle in.
A war is, uh, boring.
Courteousness, yes.
Latherers’ fortitude.
Bricks of shitted fib.
Yeast goes on living.
That none becomes.
Perchance’s injuries.
This hand is hurting.
Unfitful permissions.
Tidying of flametips.
Luridness evaporates.
Burnt with a vinegar.
The morose pathetic.
Porcelain pried open.
Form’s a gutted liver.
Sort out the sewages.
Knowing the corpse.
Oiling the sawtooth.
Bathos’ fun oblivion.
Tonnage upon lung.
A knife in the mud.
That none know of.

vaRiety without

q u al i t i e s

This perilous venture of wanting
   Differentiation,
Coating the labyrinth in blubber
   Then heating it
To boiling, the water lifts bodies
   Unrenderable,
Gassed and heedless, any rope big enough is an anchor, and long, and the thing is that
   So too is your foot the rope’s tied to,
So too are you
   The place’s anchor, and so too are you, is, your body, the rope,
The curses
   Gathering about you like hand
Over hand
   Purely mechanical, all kinetic in rectitude, how the slow meat nature bakes will halt
Itself
   Even when a choice is made,
Will flinch at the moment where, the thin air moved, the last cusp
   Thickens tense for impact
Because immobile, the hands on a human can
   Either sense this or else have, in infinitesimal flinching, made it so
And so don’t sear their force full through
   And out and onward with interruption but for the met resistance
On the blade redoubling
   Its steady force input when free of it,
No,
   The human
Is not sensing
   Better somehow than the machine,
It’s not
   Sensing
That accounts this difference but
   A different
Dimension than sense is,
   An innate
Recognition of the self
   Reflected in the swing of the axe and in the path
And in the aim.

u
t
t
e
r

If the deed is the thought,
If doing is not then thinking
If a thought is done or if
An act is done unthought
If done to completion of
A thought, having not 
Had a thought
Is having done.
     If rendering the fat from
A body is not a thought or
If the fat is got as the grease
Of a thought of having done
The rendering of if into was,
Then muscle tightening
By heat or by the intent
Of flex is
Of no difference, each is
An emptiness of act, each
An a flex,
An if tipped over.
     The grease that pulls from
Edge to edge
Is the, the written totem,
Is writing’s totem written
In the heat
Of what is not itself
To be eaten,
Of what
makes
Digestible the think of eating,
The deed 
The eating of the thought.