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Four Poems
[airplanes haunting]

an eternity of New Wave 
Fridays, of the one perfect 

airplane haunting the tinsel 
town machinery undone 

in a European junkyard—one 
breath, say the Patriarchs, 

their bodily vigor traumatizing—
one more, as evening & war 

are inlaid with undiscovered 
stars, a secret world like a 

depression of clouds blown 
down from above, your hair 

in a European junkyard—one 
hair, say the Patriarchs,

left long, slavishly following 
le cinema du papa, facing 

an eternity of New Wave 
Fridays, of the one perfectly 

rendered b&w angel in the
penetralia of Pineview Drive-In


[instead of being said]

you’ll see in 
your tools an inverse you: 

half fake-empire, half empirical 
fact: a house of ambiguity lit 

with cheap electric lights

instead of being said
in a simple email window

an emotion is turning
nouvelle vague in Antonio’s

stricken face—& in 
the civic arena we

so enjoyed the opulence
of your gender

so self-

possessed in French
furs and leather’s

cold logic tied to
a simulacrum of 

good taste and a circa 

1950s banal
architect of a softly

rotting error known as auteur
theory thrown down

in a crepuscular ditch
(heroic on the outskirts

of Hitchcock)—however,

many days supply
Sodom unto themselves

& new prophets of never


[do not disdain the face]

do not disdain the face of the blank page,
balk not, nor be balkanized—

on saying leave lay down a premier day in November

as addicts hurry through their matins, antsy
with quills, etudes, prescribed lays

on saying lave don’t at the outset 
give us reason for leaving this couch

where love leers amiably from louvered blinds,
a lever of zephyrs, shades of a duke—

in a maze, encourage your guide, ill 
but resplendently rent,

devour and lay down moans 
prodigious from the lowered font

of autistic dreams

before whom the president is sterile, derailed, 
merely an aide to dirigibles—


Journal of Evenings with Antoine


Sky, you are all thatch, tarry, and strangeness today.
A motel, a tinted money-box. Antoine’s length fails 
to stir me, yet he makes good his promises and finds 
several charlatans pretending to knowledge of crimes.
The phraseology of sages throws dust on my stereo.
From modern dumps, damp modems, come the valentines 
of my hirelings. Bats socketed in their moist stoup. 


As if this night could enter my Carnegie heart
or answer these petitions with stars, Antoine slants 
in & ignites a change in ions. He does to sleep what 
wind does to the tarn. Antoine is anyone who inclines 
himself to instrument panels of broken machines.


In between trips to rabbit island, chaos becomes this 
low-speed honeybee. In the space of a week I’m 
reduced to tokens, I skirt around the topic of modesty 
and neglect my older brother. In the Offices of 
Anesthesia, I wake up to a mouthful of rotten teeth 
as Antoine softly repairs the inside of a hairnet. 


Tonight I’m willing to admit a need for vices like
this reason for crossing Nevada without crisis.
Brief epitome of a life, you’re not on the menus 
of god, grow anemic in slits like the light of Italian 
cinema. Only now a machine that comforts me 
arrives in a box from the coast. Only now melted 
peppermints, missed appointments, malice in a mosh pit.


Ravishment in a dented van, a hamstring damaged 
in the tenth inning. Antoine of the abnormal torso, 
employee of the night, dirty in the retina 
(not a Titan, not a Tibetan monk), whose impossibly 
smooth unsmiling mouth assembles me.