2.05.2010

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Flood
the secret.
Find

the silence,
the symptoms
are

a kind of chess,
a kind of Tolstoy
character

within
the extremities
of movement.

Hits you
like a
pyrotechnician's

miscue, cue
the touch
eliminate confusion

Confucious
was having
coffee

at a breakfast
din
-er when

I
walked up
to him

and
handed him
oak tree acorns

that
I
had collected.

The clouds
walk on
themselves

this evening.
A shortage
of sunlight.

The shadow
of the earth
moving

upon your face.
I have found
the silence,

it was behind
the hanging porch
fern. I have

found the secret,
it was behind
the water-front

in your throat,
it appears
excessive.

I take your words
minting them
like coins

into my heart.
words
alight from flight

had burst
out of my heart,
flewn up

like
a leaping crowd
at a concert.

it all recurs
sanguine to start
all over again.

I am
bearded
& all a-clam,

driving through
the garish city,
the lights

blazing
with glam;
midnight blues

of
the nitty-gritty.
Caught

in
the pillows
of your precious

-ly sarcast
-ic-elastic
mind.

what
is more than
imagination,

a kind of
super-realism
collected

in conversation.
an echo
returns to itself

to reflect
to be upheld
by the results.




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