A limited edition Chapbook for Patreon supporters & the audience for my January show at The Dirty Gerund, based on a series of Radiolab episodes listened to in January 2010, that were then lost in a notebook until January 2020.
RIP Ric Ocasek.
I'm hoping to have a 48 booklet of Recent Poems I Don't Currently Hate up before the end of the month, but I'm only at page 24 so far.
In the untilwhile, here's a booklet about the reimagined discography of The Weeknd. Featuring the same orange camouflage pattern seen on my sneakers, which, I've been told, will be helpful if we're ever at war with New Hampshire.
The neighbors . killed my mother's tree . by pruning what they perceived shadowed . their lawn
Every yard in this purgatorial waiting room . slight variation of one tree . weekly cut grass . a ring of rocks . or stones . I can not tell . which
The internet tells me rocks are large . and made of stones . and stones are small . and made of rocks . and pebbles are rocks . made of stones . made of pebbles . and this is how i am coming back . to language
The neighbor's grass is lovely . this month . just like everyone else's
My mother calls the neighbor's dog ugly . as it shits on her yard . A barb wasted on an ear that has no common tongue . A rock is pelted . A stone skips . You rock someone to sleep . Stone a person to death . Yet stoned people are sleepy . A death can rock you
Geologists have more words and ideas about language and death . But if there are any geologists in this neighborhood . they too are trapped in a house . wishing they were sand in a windstorm . not an hourglass .not between treads in ugly . white . sneakers
One tree in a yard creates no wind . I think . So hurricane season . skips this part of the buffet . That’s not how weather works . There are no meteorologists in this neighborhood either . Storms are large but not made of wind . Wind is infinite and not made of storm
What I have forgotten in language . I have made up for in small talk . Particularly about myself . and the last month . which is infinite and made of storm . yes . I am feeling better . thank you . so lucky to have a mother . a hospital . doctors . blink when Jesus is hiccuped . no I don’t remember . it is hot here . I take a mile long walk every day . I still don’t know where I’m going . All I can think of is not being able to remember the three weeks of breath hitching storm
I don’t know precisely what I want to talk about . I don’t have the language for me . just the language of me . I am large and made of another word for me . I am pruned language shadowing my own mouth
Today I walked lost for five nearly identical miles . all uphill . a ring of language that somehow brings me back to small talk . I’m storm . thank you . I am lucky my mother is sand . the last month is pebbles . Thank you . thank you . my mile long walk is infinite . I am told it will bring me to the next place I complain about . One complaint in a mouth does not make home . I think . But my small talk looks infinite today . just like everybody else’s
I think the ring of my thinking is the shadow of dementia . Slight variation of phrasing . Near identical imagery . neighboring the wind of my future language
I prune my walk until I stop having to think . about what part of me is shadowing my mother’s neighbors' ears . I would rather my language die by my own hands . than by echoes . I can not tell apart
Just For You!
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