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November 13, 2018
8:00 p.m. in this perpetual night shift, and we talk again to the person inside the photo booth, you know, that one photo booth that tunnels all the way down—or up, depending on where you are—to that familiar place where all afterlife and underworld mythologies owe their artifice, the predictability of salvation they purport to deliver.
November 8, 2018
A Selected Text from Conjunctions:71, A Cabinet of Curiosity
A grown-up man not unlike me is trying to coax a struggling child into a box. That’s badly phrased and only a single sentence in we are in need of starting over.
November 6, 2018
There were parts I recognized.

I saw by night a man riding a red horse and he stood among the myrtle trees in the bottom and behind him were red horses, sorrel and white. My Lord what are these?
November 1, 2018
A Selected Text from Conjunctions:71, A Cabinet of Curiosity
The moment had come to see if it was true that Grumpa had a collection of ties lined with pictures of what her brother called “naughty ladies.”
October 30, 2018
In the beginning she was guilty, then her guilt
was scene:
                      the drift of rust-rimmed apple leaves,
the latticework of branches whose fruit
October 23, 2018
Even though I was a couple of floors below on the sidewalk, I thought I recognized her from long ago when I, or we, lived in another country. But I heard she’d died—nothing confirmed, but I’d been told as much, and yet, what do you do with this but try to forget that the person is real, forget that they may still be moving through life.
October 16, 2018
The knife was raised
before there was an after.
He cried out, “Stop, stop!
“My name means laughter.”
October 9, 2018
It was his mother’s necklace, so it had value to him, more value to him than probably to his wife. It was meant for a woman though, so he couldn’t wear it.
October 2, 2018
Song of Betel leaves being moved
from one cheek to the other and
someone sleeps on a sofa, the peal
of fleecy bells in the distance.
These real things. These real
things that make everything
real around them.
September 25, 2018
Take the depth of spring in air 
A depth-charge of life that is also death
To be in the right place
To take their picture
September 18, 2018
And in having “lost” a person twenty
years back as if out in these woods as if
looking    will find will be
found
September 11, 2018
The Oram brothers live up the mountain. Head east on the main road until it crosses the river and forks. Take the fork leading into the woods. Take the road less traveled. Don’t pat yourself on the back for your poet jokes. That is a false poem, and that poet knew it.
September 4, 2018
The skin is useful for allowing Heather to draw close to other products, to trade touches that result in pleasure, tickles, irritation, and rashes that blister and peel away. Heather’s internal units archive the glistening faces of other products. She wonders how they keep themselves so smooth, so lifelike.
August 28, 2018
It wasn’t even necessary to write a statement in blood on the walls. We have extensive accounts, typed out neatly: “They took him to a room and beat him. On another occasion, he was forced to lie down on the floor, while the MPs jumped off a table onto his back and legs.”
August 21, 2018
The sidewalk tables are ruins
that we walk through, eager.
It has always been like this.
A sear with a varnish of butter
and fresh pepper. A swallow
of wine. A swallow.
August 14, 2018
The coffee from yesterday warmed up and left in the microwave, the late-December sky two hours before the sun comes up outside of smudgy windows. Sitting. The desk. The bed. The bed the desk. It’s funny the things we hold on to, for no particular reason, or no good reason.
July 31, 2018
Perhaps we should begin in extreme heat
              or intemperate ice,                  in salt solutions,   
              in drastic acid or radical alkaline,         in heavy metals
or in toxic waste—                    wherever life seems improbable
July 24, 2018
First, an unsteady tree of clothing inside the door: the coat rack, heaped with jackets, scarfs and furs, most torn, buttons missing, some stained, all rarely worn as few ever go out—for what is outside the house but another house?
July 17, 2018
One, two days
And the mouth
Goes back on its word.
July 10, 2018
Like me when I was a child, Huck Finn hates Sundays. And sunshine. One day, “Sunday-like, and hot and sunshiny,” Huck explains,
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