The Archives

THE 15,000 DAY FORECAST

Spaces Where Spaces Are - Cover

Looking out the window
at a window. The window
is lighted. In the window
there is a lamp, there is
a telephone across the street
and up a floor, (it is very high up).
That is the first time I saw you
beneath me, work shoes
under your desk. There is
also some dirt and a man
standing on top of another
man, loops move through
their uniforms, a floor above,
smoking a cigarette, and I can
see right into the man, the one
on top of the other man,
because he is a telephone
and the other man is a lamp.
You told me about the Chief
of Snakes, the little seal
that is under the seal is
an anchor under the anchor
to murder the flat assed.
Coffee kicks off its winter.
I think they are making
a movie over there, and
the plastic pages the zones
that you are counting up
and down, and into this
spreading of the heartfelt
is hardly the figure to suggest
romance. That’s dust!
To the smoking man I
wanted to say that the window
was crying because it was
raining outside, but windows
can’t cry like people can
so the window is just wet
like people sometimes get
wet, and the dirt he makes,
it is just so that Family
Gods can provide greedy fun
for the Morons. A big bag
of lemons or oranges and the area
that its light becomes, falling
down until it hurt. The paper
thieves were not revealed
by the videotape. His leg is
broken and so the man
must hop. I AM A CIGARETTE.
I AM A STREET. I LOVE
TO HAVE FRIENDS
OVER FOR COOKOUTS
ON THE WEEKENDS.
The window is looking through
a window, now, and the window
is all dark and green.


from Spaces Where Spaces Are

Tagged with:
Posted in Texts

JULY 25, 1973

After entertaining the wounded troops
with an insistent plea for turnips, I
looked in the direction that Tina and
the Gorilla had taken. The era

of quick change wigs had at long last arrived.
In the time it took me to notice that
the alarm clock had stopped I figured I
would have to stay exactly where I am.

We embraced the affair of the frozen
casserole. The ghost intended to keep
our romance going without a body.
I often caress the dark space between

cherub and swan, our last rendezvous spot.
Red baby potatoes widen with shock.


from Spaces Where Spaces Are

Tagged with:
Posted in Texts