Instinctions 3

Nothing, up by the woods
In a world (an Italian right wing organization)
Street vendors, like ropes in snow
Like ropes in snow, a member of Casa Pound
Of (an Italian right wing organization)
Whereas it belonged in a world
Like ropes in snow, in a way
Street vendors, strange things
Street vendors, nothing
Street vendors, it was also able
There she goes, the center of the world
A member of Casa Pound then shoots himself

Instinctions 2

The center of the world, in a way.
A member of Casa Pound, nothing.
With:  there she goes.  From:  it was also able.
He came from one of the small farms, a member of Casa Pound.
By being nothing:  nothing.
Walks into an open air market.  There she goes
With:  too rich to demand anything.
He was, whereas it belonged
In a world too rich to demand anything.
It was also able, nothing.
It would have been nothing, an envoy in chaos.
With:  to eat or not to eat, too rich to demand anything.

Instinctions

Nothing, nothing.
He was with nothing.
He came from one of the small farms:  to eat or not to eat.
The center of the world:  to eat or not to eat.
He reigned with:  to eat or not to eat
Nothing, nothing.

He was.  It would have been nothing.
Nothing, nothing.
It would have been nothing in Florence.  There would not have been
Yet another, like a quiet monarch.
A member of Casa Pound, mountain climbs man.
It would have been nothing by being something.

Shyku (8/9/12)

so begins 

Season In Help, a

photographer of ATMs at night

*

fire's for children

ice for old women

lullabies the happy idle

                          *

flash mob of burn

victims on a nude beach

the beautiful appalled and homeless

*

a plague holiday

suns under body

beach a brain of one

*

babies come from the

south, so years later what

comes from the north

*

luxuriant in silent rags

pen and pad and rooms

that resemble humans

*

removed batteries from her

vibrator for his beard

trimmer: O great round!

*

girl who cancels 

all sweetness beyond

dreaming to be held

                                   *

what fire says

i don't smoke

i smoke

*

while you sit here

i think

what other problem

*

dimples of the 

floating world

sometimes assholes

                  *

beads of dew cling

to roadkill fur, arise 

fake death, young possum

                                *

prank suicide

her body for brains

who was Jesus' stylist

      *

short man's ghost

climbed a ladder

up there, equally visible

Relics of a Hot Beginning

Oh honey it is darker today

and the clouds hold heavy

their sadness. Everybody feels it.

We just try to fill in where we're empty.

Like dark matter. The space

changes constantly.

And you can't escape space.

Listen men of the hour

we must pay attention

and wait. Through days

that don't break.

Wait without watching

then let the grown-ups

speak.

Time is a monster

with years for teeth.

Sometimes we need

a break from space

some sleep.

To just give in and let it

eat. This is why

the dark matters.

This is the beast.

Bakelight

So you went through life without whistles. It was an uneventful, careful, simple advance from infancy to old age. The

ideal was to be heavenly in name. To crib fame from God and make it mortal. To be renowned (which is a funny

way to put it--re-nouned? Revised in your nounhood?) To offer your pulse to language or sound or a canvas--to

float as one live event swept away and meshing with so many other similar soft occurrences--you knew it in your

most animal muse, was what you were here for. What is here then is now there. You move through one created thing

to another. Does it give pleasure, does it out likenesses and discordances that measure the weather, person by person?

When you're gone, your breadcrumbs will stray behind you. Maybe it will look like a path, a way back, maybe not. 

Some will stand in the middle of the forest holding perfectly baked loaves of bread. But those were not your loaves. 

Those were not your loves. Maybe yours required that you tear them bit by bit, without reward or comment, as you

went, step by step, from where you began to where you ended up standing. By definition you weren't as much a 

baker as the ones with official ovens. But does it matter, if summer is hot enough to raise dough all by itself? I'm 

a failed baker, but a happy addict. I sew my crumbs just for the throw of it, for my own, and my loved ones' health.

Doctor O

He had a pretty useless style of clairvoyance, limited to really one thing: could guess what kind of blood type you
were, just looking at you. And if you had too much blood in your body, could
tell you that too.