Sarte Erasure

The earlier majority, as if to ask the day
not wishing anguish is past,
surpassing to the extent
across the fact.

The mode apprehends this
instant, again.
Permanent nothingness.
Yesterday, a synthetic situation.

Play seemed a former memory.
Order more, remake it freely.
My fact is another,
disappointing like boneless flesh,

alone as the day, having the circle of
resolution, the fact of myself,
not past good resolutions.
Which vain condition is ignorance?

A view would come, effective, in action
we shall not question. Only show this
established structure, this existence
of description, either indeed, unrealized.

Ashbery Erasure

My hurting, many say,
off to it, which to it may
so about it. Or, cover a shame
by this night, to and of flames...

To so recoup the start, this, the
how, the transaction: fear the best new things,
new season. Others, the ours in weeping,
the them in pajamas--the underneath,
a belief, never much hoping "out" was "yes."
One cannot account for it.

It's April, so it's National Poetry Month.  Awesome.  Artpost in South Bend is having another poetry marathon this weekend, Friday April 13 starting at 5pm and ending Saturday, April 14 at 5pm.  

Readers can sign up for a 15 minute time slot.  Come and listen, have some refreshments provided by Fiddler's Hearth, and get your voice out there.

Get the schedule of times here, at Artpost's website.

She Passed Fulton Street

Don't gravitate away, he says.
Smooth it over with your
sweet talk, your savvy
harmonica skills.

Actually, what works best
is a word, a thought--
any indication that
what we have here is more
than a thistle

Then a saxophone wails
like a cavity entering a tooth:
slowly at first, then echoing,
empty as a cave.

Hiking

Perhaps it is today that totals all meaning of life, a
roundabout progression of time. Perhaps,
like celery, time is good for you.

Stars creep up in their stately way.  Forgetting
to breathe in the night air, one had best forge
expectations in the daytime.
And another lover waits for you at the Sycamore.

Did we figure we'd be this far ahead?
Let's not lose the trail.
Ours is a recessive trait.

Portrait

It lives in the lungs,
is buried and harsh--
bound to travel and
want. It cannot hear you.
It hardly wants to. And
outside the ground lay silent,
feeding the troposphere
with rising smoke.

How To

If the world appears large it is merely

by contrast.

We sat for hours in the anesthetic

silence, keeping our

words to ourselves,

sharing space, forging a relationship

with the idea of one another.

And really the effort was short-lived,

the results divergent yet calming.

Then someone opened a window

and, slowly, the morning fell in.