he thinks he wants to look like he’s
in the action without moving.
the monotony of the bright spot,
that which has firemen working
underneath my pillow. we’ve
eaten too much landscape. he’s
no more somewhere than the out
side. the golden moments of
evening when the dust settles,
haze on Treasure Island, real in
viting. the more we watch tele
vision the more we focus. I sit
somewhere in the charcoal. OK
we can do something there, per
haps a little editing. a winter
storm with lots of salary. two
pennies basically told me not to
apply for any more positions.
that’s golden like the sleepy room
where lips and lips ellipse,
notable only for their first week in
Cambridge. many other positions.
unnoticed harem we focus. more
somewhere than here, an island
full of misfits. misted. OK per
the little hopes, the moments.
today is shifty. in which out
rageous century I am most contented.
