His Tax Is for Vision (an Antigaze)

But in the basement a thing

slit the first piano hands

could make. No ghost

is not this kind.

Well it hardly

shifted the righteous

show. The city was often

 

more whole but never

astounding. In the deft portrait of explanation

he returned a chartered box

I will need years before you. It’s you I will

 

face within the recent wave

of exotic clergy. I need to water

the land in the little bones of their mouths.

We help the whole breathy ensemble

who never tells and by affect

sobs outdated and encased. In private proposals

 

are numbers arriving to

the chambers of the guard shower

producing the aroma

of a body in the window of an image. Strange

 

me in their haint

contained. In a letter clean an ocean

great is an exception which feels like including

this light itself. It was all his to eat. Perhaps

his tax is for vision and funds the probe of the sucker coasts.

We are not

 

always us but any version

is space here.

Imagine in the school a thing that does not beg to wreck.

Lean to me as in flux

or in flux or in flux. It’s

to know like a dead. Existentially

 

it tars. The poet

was to be a poet; to be a poet was to further

amble oceanward with troubles

well into the crucible,

whom they record in the accurate order. This terminated

 

no one who was not marked silent. This said

he had it seems for years before been part boat.

To learn this was a joy, the smell of scallion

in my high ears. Prized and housed

in your turning camera I am

to conduct the long room of needless success

before the media. My modes: God, the me in which that, the inside of, and the American.

I am looking to settle appropriately. He is going

 

with the chewed up situations.

Guitar with rose: The way we know

shared hells. The baser moon

was the only person literal all year. More dour

am I than the therapist.

Take any look against the blackness of astronomy

and discern the human turret, its amorous shower

 

deepens the cities’ bad sky

momentarily. Night parts; for us

dawn is vanishing. Like space

I am momentary as a moment. We are in the first

aesthetic thread proceeding metaphorically or morally

down into the air — for the second levitating, but real

 

orders come Monday. No things in fact

matter inside a glass. Revenants exist.

Of that we can keep an antigaze. Not all the is-ness.

Think of simile as an example of affable occultation

under the very wide rain

propriocepting the kitchen of what. Suspicions

of certain forms within the disconforming. But I

 

untrain the world that it was wrong. It has been

situations, by turns charming, being

millions, its pasts a still flailing

sound, short of the bad

prominent kind of good. See the fortuitous

storms around our fingers? A moment of rose

 

here pulls upwall me.

For your heart, leave a human

in the witness climate of obfuscation. You

can keep up among the analytic woundings. Medicate the fact

right out of the mirror of thought. The language mover,

I suck the world where I am verily noticing

your bare choice of first marrow. Do a figure of losing.

 

Our compulsions, too, priced as want. A dressy

restaurant with the senator best admired, on whom like a disease pearlike

gel our urges. Even as we innervate the house

the privating wind grows a party of subject. Thank

what is feeled. I had always helped to burn the boxes

for humans to find their men compressed with desire,

part concept hyperperson, part

cultural in the deflation of many perceptions. We have to see

 

the craze with our curse’s name. Cigar sheer

glints off the attached batwings

but I came at creation derelictly like a child star

passes to the upper ledge

in the same light. Claim the blood wells from the guitar,

the sound of which we cannot

 

too much smoke. The sundered types of the world

heart sex for to destroy the minding.

We just gives bodies. On the lit walk I part,

 

stretch, then more orange, and day  

turns to be resonant. The lines quote all of the text

more like an end. Iron bleeds thought and is silent.

The woman lost perceives her own

faithroom like a certain vilified effort

though but no one writes. It just arrives to us

proper with wine, intimate and keeping

without us. You arrive through the bare wax into the mountain

remains of this week. I follow your trail-less dollars

from shit through to a spirit of glorification. Too hard a drink I

am out the object’s of hands. Every sense of spring

flies direct. Its bless panics. I am alone like an arrow.

 

This mimicry clouds my drink. It was forever a sculptural opening,

the connection pool of being to the ghosts

of the poem, bigger in dreams, mortifications

and replanted bodies. Out of its little needles

they seep into your secretions.

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