SOME WRITING

for your educational cravings:
excerpt of an honors thesis on Heiner Goebbels and Gertrude Stein -
email me for the complete work

purely for your enjoyment:
anthony
anthony parte deux
(these are excerpts of an as-yet unedited 100+ page manuscript -
email me if you want the rest)


poems
tomorrow
nicollet
ode to sal mineo
en campo aperto
warming



                                    Tomorrow

absorb your

entire
exposed side


            was speech

even the hip under

                        pressed my ear to protect/appear

chambers for everting
and to fold around
             ringing

                                                            inside is easy
                                                            your face was all water
                                                         
                                                eyes draped over the surface of
                                                and the raised shapes i read


braille from
                                                                                                                 stung

your back

overlapped

                                    i embossed you i felt



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                                                              Nicollet

you precede in amplitude

disintegrating speech

a word lifts, when watched an action rattles


your younger sounds thicken
a rind below the eyes

horizontal surveillance of

your voice precedes by dying, in the manner of cells


ears lengthen with a swallow, speech
shifts across escalators

when a sentence is discernible it billows up


the appearance of the sun slows perception
odors of concrete are paled
a face in the sun is sighing


absent in the city
seen as a boy, perception changes dialect


proliferate cliffs
the weight of tea, a lessening of it
adjusts the color, or taste

the proportions of rectangles appeal with variation

we seek out a sound in the form of rusting spines
annealing into jokes

i slump into my husbands and wives
theirs is monophony

carrying many spaces in miniature
paper sacks, countless small atriums, you stay quiet



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                                    Salvatore Mineo

it
is
not
all
over.  

                                                            rare serialism
                                                            one to
                                                            almost in an
                                                            armoire
                                                            so
                                                            reverie still
                                                                        revolves

save veil or loneliness
a slain satin room arrives


in a rainstorm
to travel in aleatories on
an elevator

                                                (leans on an arm
                                                  orates a minor
                                                  vastness)

so move, revise
                animisms latent


            me,
            a resilient narrative
            letters


to mine, to an arm, aslant

to an arm over it
it arrests, smiles

(a moment resists assertion)

                                                            atonal movie star
                                                            name
                                                            so
                                                            sits, leaves
                                                            lines



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en campo aperto*









“in the open field”   of refractions from a window
nimble first blink of a matins (“includs three nocturns”)
slides around you without a solemined figure, who

pins unblanched side of a sheet  
with the fine hairs of (her) legs


opened field leaves first a folio
read around corners, you
                          stride the hem of a note, symbaled hands
                          wan from a

stripthin light
                                                    of
                                                    from  
                                                    the hum of a bulb

bareness is plucked polish from the flat
chasm

placed overnight nubs of          worn canons
who were bodies on waking

                                                    our throats on waking were being travelled

we came unfixed and dismored by crowd, it yawns amid
our limbs
neither my aperture (apres) from you, only a hole in our middle
drifting up

inward floates a tone: altitude bouys you
into a rolled up coast line

 

                          if your surface is all coast you have a strange
height
                                                  pulls up and
refracts an aperto

fills in the field around you with a boom
from (her still)                                     pitch
coast
                        lines leaned at each other to pivot on        

a transpo i sed      hume
a pair of sheets pushing at them sighing

 

*medieval notation of chants were lines of text written without regard to alignment and with scattered symbols indicating pitch.   the space around the text was not tied down by a staff so was referred to as “in the open field;” also refers to the relative nature of the pitches.




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                                    Warming

still where you are is separate

and first, surprise


in a fist holds up

                                                i felt that touch beforehand


it wears faintly
                                    the shins
                                    yours skinny and patient



a blind intake
if your mouth got my breath
we own its accident


                        even approach my ear
                        the peach light
                        halves you


                                                                        were sung



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