Determining the Candor That Cavity Is Good For

Wowee, listen to that version. Me & George, people can vouch. Above released yesterday ahead of a 50th Anniversary Box Set of *All Things Must Pass,* the second most listened to album of my life. Guess who's buying, whenever and wherever I can, the box set

Funny, on heels of Dara Anti-Kaboom as event and me and event-scavenging, I searched to type in a credit card number but no field yet exists in honeytrap. I don't think they'll run out

The new Dara, don't read that, read this

Warning: you don't want *me* to start snorting the haiku of short stories
Way past time to leave America
Grievance christers are here to stay
The last post's Thursday Night Pint voice, I've been reading not only C's short stories but Lydia Davis' and short short stories give me ideas
Today in self-surveillance				Poverty is a shitlord weapon of choice
Good news: no interest in writing short stories as in disclaimer any simularities unintentional in my poems, easy epiphanies there OK
ACAB		ACAB		ACAB		ACAB
Bad news: dialogue in haiku it will have to be before abandoned
Shitlordia			Crackers are weird				Yes
Don't worry, I'll not short story at you					Dialogue haiku
Children of the homunculus				Some thoughts on the common toad		How I lost control of my own face
I twitter came with news of the new George release thinking kaboom you too
Philosophy is bullshit		War Porn		IHMD		Nine rules for the woke birdwatcher
A few but no, fine metaphors abound but at least they're my fine metaphors abounding, refreshed, reset, fuck it restored
Con's final stage		Name the solution		Brief history of the Devil
I tried *Forgotten Work* but I wasn't reading well at time, am taking it to Michigan week after next, will try again
Colin Newman on Rundgren's Wizard/True Star

TO TELL OF BODIES CHANGED

Jana Prikryl

Having desired little

more than the

arrival of the little more

that arrives,

outside our window a cypress

of model proportions.

Its patience seems to widen

the nights we sleep in Rome.

Warm flags draw a tortoise,

it scrapes too near.

Our friends hurry over when they hear,

exclaiming over its mute

resolute

distinctness and helpless slow efforts to flee.

Density pours into swallows and shadows:

spilled with abandon each morning,

begins then the slow work

of receding.

The joints announce their new allegiances.

Metaphors swarm the surfaces of things.

Night broken into, it's the sub rosa

singling out

I ought to have expected

from Fra Angelico's small panel

among others,

the souped-up full-spectrum wings

combined with a mood of reverent submission

in both figures

warning of experience

yet to come.

Starting now she'll reason with herself

deliberately

(imagine bulbs expecting stars

for effort!), aware of being always overheard,

subject to unprecedented measures

of integrity, like an author.

While a substance of landscape, mineral,

leaches into blood vessels

quietly steadily, meaning in this case

nothing is damaged;

extravagance of umbrella pines

propping their fingers under the bonus horizons

of the hills, redundancies

boosting the city's resemblance to itself.

A painter once squared himself against a difficult question

and said no one could just create

a landscape,

but isn't it true

that expectation builds a neighborhood

and there is nowhere else that you can live.

It was possession, turns out, by a force whose intention

touched the first body alone, a body changed

again precisely to its own form,

a very special intention.

 

Alloyed

discretion, the grit of a damp trowel

explores my mouth, at leisure

determining

the candor that cavity

is good for.