What was it called when you could go down to the same place over and over
again? Sea storms. Dry land. Curved and trembling.
Loving loving. The strangest thing is when the lovers’ movements
form patterns
And I cried in a pattern
The guys in the basement call the little one “the fish” when he won’t
get out after his swim
[Waiting. What has happened?]
Waiting. What has happened? Winters and many pages that
can be understood by being audited with division and sincerity.
Whispers of solitude and phone calls when I try to get K to
understand. He distinguishes matter-of-factly between needing and
requesting. And descriptions. Sleep habits. Routines.
Hands straining up like volcanic eruptions
We say our association. That has to do with our desire. We
say our desires. And suspect that someone will help
us
[Travel dust, notes, effects, objects, and groups]
Travel dust, notes, effects, objects, and groups, the
chipped gender creature:
the anxious one
wanted to place something under himself
He talks about himself, always in a way that distances him
more from reality than arranging it
He had thought through hard explanations
Singing and painting but he became angry
He goes home, goes along the last stretch of highway. The river and the ridge.
The family gathering’s wild indulgence. The usual summer hookups.
A quirky tale about reproduction and beauty that he
—tries to break from—
relates to
Simmering bodily and wet. Moves. Everything further away. A sunny
day. A beautiful evening after a sunny day became a sad day. Layers
of sky. Soiled roses. Highways and express trains. The distances
and the different strata’s differing speeds. Yawning. Cut. As
if it were useless to restrain a feeling. The excessively hot
nights and the red lights that invite you in and turn off
[Time. His anger is an accentuation of silence.]
Time. His anger is an accentuation of silence. He collapses
on a splendid terrace. He dazzles the court. Twitches quickly
before he gets up. His irascibility is part of the glittering
sharp moisture in his hair, beard, clothes. Thinking of his hunky
crusted surface. The hollowed captain’s material. And how his
guy has agreed that it’s a fulfilling life that butts up against
the opaque surface. That it’s okay
—When they lie down on the open, raw, beautiful floor—
intimacy is not a valve for tenderness.
He grips his neck hard when they love
He learns that he will die and it takes a while for him to
understand what is about to happen. He wants to leave something of himself
behind. His dream to procreate is too simple to be
comprehendible. His beauty is enhanced by the decay about to take
it from him
Like black ink contouring his beard
Sweet death falling down to the ground
Dressed in beige. The curtains have fallen asleep cream-colored where
he will do it with the childless couple
At the water’s edge, immeasurable time in a child’s ball. Measurable
in his own recollections, the first secret kiss with
his companion. Time to go. It still beats.
Måla / Painting
A big child
where dragonflies
lay their eggs
and the local motorcycle club
have their meetings.
A convex-shaped cloud
of dust and dragonflies
where the cow barn’s
eyeless face
gazes mournfully
where the pink twinflowers
stand and pray
The roads towards the meadows
the meadows, the beautiful beds
the new money drunken forest.
*
A silver-colored booklet
reminiscent of a baptismal gift
the sun’s reflection
in a worker’s face
brings her to her knees
where the pier stretches into the black-green river
knotty and cunning
as a poem.
Where the motorcycles rumble
through society
a child is alone
because God made it ugly.
*
A blue neck at dusk
on the cheap lot
when it obscures the grocery store
and on the gravel road down to the bathing spots
where the leaves shine
where the power plant is owned and repaired.
A complete stage for an insect
called imago.
It makes noise
carefully.
Where cherry-red clothespins
hold the gardens together
between the pathway and the shaded grove.
A green coating on
speckled plastic
where class
sounds like different people of equal worth.
A beefy guy on his bike
where the mosquitoes are drawn to the sweet folds.
A rapid of cats in the light
a chrome gas tank.
It must be filled with gold.
Impossible not to look at.
His ass is hypnotic.
A scratch in the big baby’s gray stomach
is tilled in the summers
where it sticks too big
in a shopping cart
in the parking lot
up in society.
*
Stories of God haunt the big child.
Stories about ghosts are sorrowful work.
A written gift
lays waste the face of the worker.
An emblem of leather
bulges from the beefy guy’s vest.
It sounds like when the child lays
its hands against things.
It sizzles.
The child’s eyes burn
when it writes about God’s kindness
and boils sorrow into reason.
Where gelatinous clusters shine under the docks.
Where the soil is so simple.
It may appear as
an innate longing for beauty
or flaunted resources.
*
A big child
projects
an unlived life
onto Claes who
sucks on his sharp
pastilles and
lives with his brother.
*
A big child
where industries
press sheet metal
into creek bends
for the finished chassis.
Where the shell costs too little
there’s work.
Where coral tooth fungus
extends its branches
and the worker
buys food for a garden.
It sounds like sharp-edged motorcycle noise
when chewing the evening meal.
Where the idea of a nature reserve
is a diligently beaten root.
It sounds like one hasn’t been built
since the late 1980s.
