An apple on a paper towel
on a dispenser of disinfecting wipes
on the carpet before us is just so
our eyes merge on one pastoral line
Z looked seriously and Z
looked at her serious looking
just so the leyline stretched
a scrim
A cold cone of mites
swirls before a shadow play
of night walks
across unruined city blocks
with people we miss
Folds of scratchy bed covers
shelter villages carved into hillside
I pack in my bag for tomorrow
a trinket box inlaid
with pearl flake
A dull husk emptied
of mung beans
once arranged
into a little henge
in the shag under
grandmother’s bed
Ancient homely stone
gathered into a box
stolen bead by bead
by mice or a ghost hand
R came in late
the morning I dreamt
of a twilit house
where I stood
knee deep in runoff
A radioactive stream
others just left there
vibing and ultrapink
"The poet is of no party." BaudelaireOur manifesto is an act of substantiation.
We reject all forms of futilitarianism, in whatever disguise.
We believe that comedy is the song of the village and tragedy the song of the goat.
We believe what is written in the books, but now we want to see for ourselves.
The single idea, beating on the same doors in vain.
The analogue and the invention.
The death cell.
The first permission.
Though we watch the stage for things to happen, though our minds wander.
By ourselves in the green field, playing our diversion.
Though the story begins with the loss of a home.
Out of the machine, we shift restlessly in our seats.