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November 19, 2019
We scuttle to a stop at the lake edge,
at the fat plop of a frog’s retreat

we always barely fail to see. Here
we’re ankled in spawn grown bolder:

earth crumbling aside instead of down,
November 15, 2019
A Selected Text from Conjunctions:73, Earth Elegies
I was excited to help. The response here, officially, was bad. A lot of us knew we needed to react to that somehow. We wanted the victims to know that not everybody here felt like he did. But also, yeah, that’s the word for it, excited.
November 8, 2019
A Selected Text from Conjunctions:73, Earth Elegies
Shira thought she would buy furniture for the bedroom first. Kevin made attempts at saving his garden. Doreen pushed the dough down with the heel of her hand. Gabriel tried a new yoga pose. Cynthia and Steve went for a drive. Toby said, The weather is just great. Marybeth wore the same dress two days in a row.
November 5, 2019
An abalone shell in a dream signifies a new home.

To be afraid in a dream signifies strife along with danger, which seems obvious enough.

Clear air in a dream signifies success in one’s business affairs.
November 1, 2019
A Selected Text from Conjunctions:73, Earth Elegies
You would not go there. Mountainous
ships gather in at the beach
of Alang. Each will feed 100 mouths
broken down into elements
by the young. Sent out between the places
we have scoured so now our harbors push it past
October 29, 2019
Mornings and evenings, on their way to and from the pond, the boys would hear the old Tilson woman calling to her cat.
October 22, 2019
It’s civic because it has a surface. It’s worse than it seems, but at least it keeps seeming. Though I become butter in the face of such hard-knifed buildings, I’d like to locate a harmony that does not equal plan. That doesn’t tilt the map toward a penthouse.
October 15, 2019
On the highway, saw the eyes of a sheep staring through slats
of a trailer transport. Who?

I thought for both of us. The choices
I had; those it didn’t.
October 8, 2019
I wanted to take you out shoplifting
mascara, reenacting all the scenes from
Marie Antoinette. I wanted us to fall 
back repeatedly into a bed of extravagant
dresses, eat really good chocolates, listen
to even better music, smell really good.
Is that too literal?
October 1, 2019
The outer bark cleaved 
so as to summon
a slug, these oars 

paddling air 
opposite sun. 
Nocturnal 
September 17, 2019
Late flies large as nearly extinct black bees

burrow in wisteria

when the desert has all the carcasses
September 10, 2019
The dolphin appeared in a cloud of dust, a soft red bloom on the horizon that blossomed into a cyclone over the course of the day. Wade Walton spotted the arrival around noon from his perch at the motel’s front desk, where he briefly wondered if he might be seeing a mirage.
September 3, 2019
revived after stasis to regrow roots and ribcage of willowy human shape the child emerges lifespan long or short when starved phobias of insects and mean dogs invisible in the trees walk backwards
August 27, 2019
In the tender early silence of a day you imagine belongs to you 
already the contours of the night before forgotten and what that night told
when you went through the dark house 
marking disturbances of light
August 20, 2019
Today is an apparent day of shadows piercing timeworn walls, of melt & freeze & brutal disregard, of brutality in its frightened guise, of mastery in fear & fear in mastery, of fear in its brutal guise
August 13, 2019
   Tinfoil-hat alert: I asked God for more,
sharpening my quills and gathering reams of paper to write books
     as an antidote to all I was not!
August 6, 2019
After my grandma died, my uncle had their dog Lady euthanized. I’m not sure why. My grandfather went into assisted living. My uncle took over the farm. He rarely invited anybody over.
July 30, 2019
Sandy Szymanski was worried that she was turning into a duck, but the worst thing about her predicament by far was how nobody seemed to care. “Eh, I doubt it,” her landlord said when he came to inspect the transom window through which some hooligan had thrown, overnight, a bottle of Pabst Blue Ribbon.
July 23, 2019
From Dyeu Ary
Pour liquids over the body
Boil liquids into her body
into the silence she becomes
waif, monolith, endless roads
Cloud-gold-dust larger than earth
July 16, 2019
She wanders aimlessly through age, age
being a nutrient that washes from the cliff face
into the soil.

Absence a rhythm in the daily round, rows
carved into furrows in the ground or the folds
of the robe, not planted with seed.
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Monday, March 2, 2020
2:30 pm – 3:30 pm
Campus Center, Weis Cinema