vomit sonnet

I shall compare thee to nothing of the sort: it's windy as fuck
out there and we all know how windy
fuck is. I shall not compare thee
to the cat who runs across the room with a sonnet
in her mouth. And I shall not know
how windy fuck is. Most of all I shall not complain.

I shall be compliant: it's nothing of the sort
(the sort of complaint, that is, that catches, that complies). We all know
the cat who runs across the room with the wind in her mouth. Open.
We all know nothing of the sort. Blow away. We are complicit
in this instance, we are complacent and it is only this wind
that runs across the room with nothing but a sonnet in its sorry mouth.

Blurred music cuts in and out. This evening's walk is brought to you
by the almost full moon which hurts too much, please
           go away.

[the act of diving]

The act of diving; a darting plunge into or through water or the like.

     or, This stupid utopia is not what I want at all


I keep accumulating this lack of texture
this sudden ambivalence and this need
for a periscope—the I's have it, no
the ors have it—in fact
no one has it; we have only
this stupid utopia and the detritus that blows through
this lack of ambivalence and this sudden texture
this need for concealment, a perpetual motion
heartbreak. I keep accumulating.

Things boil
absolutely.

In the static, constant intimation:
I keep resurfacing, uncovering,
it's better than missing everyone. The present
slides, inopportune protection: this isn't much, you know.
I ask for forgiveness, for forebearance, no
I ask for fortuity. I keep accumulating
distance, a concert of difficulties and this insistence
also known as this stupid utopia and this
is not what I want.

Things boil.
Things part.
Reception varies.

I want to jump up and slam something shut.

The fold whimpers
the evidence subsides.

This stupid utopia cannot distinguish: Everything is all at once.

I keep missing, I keep trying to touch…
I can see why you love, intractable
I can see why this lack, why this accumulation
is not enough.

I found you there once, in the drawer
where everything is explained.

Somewhere there is a box to put everything you find into, until then this will have to do

[a very old poem I just found]


His way. One wall. But we really have to hurry
OPPORTUNITIES (mainly little brick).
Coast a new herd accordingly. Hoppy and the little guys
squeezed into STARTERS FIXUPS and DESPERATE MOTIVATED his family.
I just wanted to let ya know His family and two Realtors
looked xtra sad!
But anywho I have to get back to my latin
Two losers loved pinochle. Always. So did you break up –
The young man presented enough to shoo
a shiny black attaché
cuz he always looks sad could only mean
could be brewed in an instant. Peace
*remember this type of enterprise
how utterly secretive and emphasized
he always looks sad. A vulture. A devious smile.

(gone)

(Gone, all of us
             gone)

I think you should know

this is not for you (as it is in real life); I've seen
how we would still have these metal teeth

how he would still be painfully obvious
how he would still lean toward subtraction

I think you should know

how to claw your way back out; I've seen
how possibility pushes back

in this dance in which I have not yet moved

how he would still leave a hole
how he would still leave
how he would still

       be still

I think you should know

the arctic possibilities
this little sliver of the world that is all that I can see

       be still

you will not be rewarded

I think you should know

this is not for you

this view has been framed for one hundred fifteen years
and nothing has changed

I think you should know

how I do not say
this is not true

being cold is real

and while the view has changed,
the frame has not