So Far, There Is No Snowstorm

I am occupying a number of places
at once, as if, the coiled snake
in the shoe orbits something.

I'm neither happy nor unhappy with the beard.
It arrives, it has a certain tickling/scratching sensation.
It is a manner of face fur and it deserves a designated amount
of respect. But no one

in the dense forest that grows thick growth
seems to see what this is.
It's not the obvious cliche that matters.
It's the sadness of the shoe.

Neither breathing nor desnaking, it plows
through the closet darkness
heaping snow on the cars parked
roadside. I'm saying, Whatever!
And, Uh, yes.

Quasi not the Quasar, but ((definite)) 2BLeaf~~~~(for the sleepover)

People!

I have ideas, but I do not know what they are.

Colbalt Triumph: Pull-Toy (notorious) FPP^ (No. 6(3)) {see you soon}

Odd Extenuater, Level 7-Past Built Proof, #13243546

The Poem You Wouldn't Show Anyone

Whether you do or not,
the muffled tone of truck wheels
staticing in the distance
feels so definite that
all these fantasies I have
just don't matter. My kids
sleep upstairs and still
I would hate to write a sentence
like this. This guy on TV
is tapping the tips of fingers
together illustrating the cohesive
nature of his point, which "could
head off what could
be a potential disaster." But
we know that I can't sustain
this forever.
Neither can you.
We are together in this, doing this
boring thing. Really, I'm
just reaching out but it is so selfish
that it appears I'm reaching in.

Also, a Crack in the Windshield

Friends make agreements,
they break agreements,
they make new agreements.
Over beer,
over a shot,
over a covered bridge.
You may be experiencing a decent
ride through the country.
Bummer there is no super
car that carries us.
I can hear boards rattling.
Not that I know anything about
rattling boards, but remember
I am writing words.
You've got an idea?
Me too. When the rain starts
it takes a couple of minutes
to start the wipers.

Christmas

There is the thing about the presents which
are mostly appreciated but unused. Of
course, yes, there are sales at various
retailers, and, yes, mothers.
There are also other types of family,
in laws, etc.
There are in fact highballs for the very
old who are still drinking.
I am having a gin and tonic.
Also, there is the everything, the over-the-
top, the wrapping paper and bows.
In one room there is a song coming
trough the TV. The song is "It's Beginning
to Look A Lot like Christmas." This
is bad. The woods are closing in.
Next year the Christmas tree
will be fake, which is better
and more real. I'm not a fan
of DVDs and video games for my kids.
I think, like, Everyone knows
that shit is bad for kids.
I even receive an enormous tin full
of very delicious chocolate.
The expense of it.
I mean, the cost of appetizers, the wear
on the tires.
Our warranty is only for so long
so you make split second decisions.

A Strong Argument for Faith

It pretty odd
the religious
have richest
imaginative life,
their virgin conception
7 days, etc.
Us poets and
conceptual whatnots only
dabble sort
of wack-ness.

Partial History of My Face Hair

Why Sports Aren't Important

Okay, he is kicking the ball. His leg is straight and horizontal. This was during the fall. My brother took this picture. This is soccer. This is during practice, before the game. He's nearly five here, but he's still four. He runs everywhere around the field, a sort of bug around a bulb. By the time it's over he's worn out. I can see this many times, like the curves of the roads in the neighborhood I grew up in.

The Truth! (2)

The beard is, in fact, growing!
It is growing!
Still, a slight breeze vibrates
the words in this line/lin/line/line/e.
Perhaps you can tell by the way
"line" in line four seems stuttery and odd.
This is an indication of
microscopic vibration.
But it is the beard I wish to welcome!
Yes, in another lifetime I was in love with you!
Yes, I found you very attractive!
You, arriving on a slow heavy bus!
What is important about you
is impossible to identify
but I'm going to visit a psychiatrist.
I believe a combination of
consoling and medication will distill
the beard into meaning!
I might also further my education!
I may incur debt that I'm willing
to pay off, beard!

New Fruit

My head is not a square shape.
It is more like the shape of a
disfigured egg. Or, a sort of
gourd. Were my head square
I imagine that I could
have thoughts that
were more cornered. As it is,
all my thoughts get swirled as do
ice cream flavors when melting
in the same bowl. This tastes
just fine, but is hell on the military
which is trying to order rows,
take over small countries, and
maintain a substantial influence in
larger, middle-sized places.
I am trying to digest
this situation but my geometry is phony.
I am not even able to distinguish
between the nuanced shapes. My head
is a phony-type of brain apple.

The Truth!

People, I am growing a beard!
Last night, I cut my hair.
And in every moment hence
I am growing a beard.
The appeal of the beard.
The beard! The appeal!
Now, there is the question of glasses.
Not, that there is a question about the glasses.
People with eye trouble must wear glasses.
It isn't a matter of facial hair!
It is quite different.
Still, the beard grows.
As does the exclamation point!

Things that Can't Be Taught

One of my students wrote this. Obviously, she is one of my good students.

What It Means

I'm hoping for snow.
And the news says snow is coming.
I want to go sledding.
I want to go ice skating.
I want to dress warm and ski.
I am not hoping for rain.
Cold and wet is not good.
Cold and snow is good.
Warm and wet is good.
Sometimes I am let down by the news.
The news is a mild addiction.
It is fun but it's addictive.
I have thought for years about this.
My brother never wore a coat.
It made no sense.
Even eating snow is crazy.

The Beautiful Holidays

There are options in the universe. For instance, your Santa could look severe, with like antler-wreath-horns springing out of his head. Also, his white gloves might clash brightly with the torso clothing of your children. He could seem to consider the possibility of not being Santa. Which is true. Also, your son could have just asked for Don on a motorcycle and also "cars." You weren't there, but your daughter isn't happy. You can tell by the way she is screaming. Additionally, the way she is fighting to get free, waving her arms, etc. You may even be thinking, well, this guy's Santa-beard isn't even adequate. Nobody will believe this miracle.

The Present Situation

I have noticed how few people
commit suicide during
a press conference.
It is an unlikely situation. Occasionally,
a Budd Dywer will exist
and exit as a hole is an exit.
I have also noticed
my wife is very, very beautiful, keeping
me impressed nearly always. I wander
through this daytime as a cough.
I think of the paper walls
in an ancient Japanese setting.
A sort of picture exists.
It is not Van Gogh.
But it is Kenneth Rexroth neither.
I think of Kenneth Goldsmith.
This name is not Japanese.
And in NYC there is a city.
Even people who have lived often notice
irregularities in the poorly imagined universe.
So far, from what I can tell,
an art critic is about to begin speaking.
Quiet! Quiet in here, head.

Insincere Inviations

In between telling yourself that TV
has answers like cotton T-shirts, like remote
sideburns that are controlled by a razor
stylist, cropping closely.

I'm thinking of 90210, only because
there are distractions in the universe that happen, much
as you want to help a depressed student
you feel everything drifting
into being a depressed student

slouched in a bean bag.
I won't tell you what year it is, but for me it is 1992.
If you are a heart twined with landscape veins, even worse.
There are dark red apples in this meat drawer.
Please chewing rare freely.

Yes! No!

*also: you're probably a publisher or editor of an excellent poetry press. But you want something else to publish and you're reading this. I actually have things that I would like you to publish. I mean, I'd enjoy that. It's not that it's all about me, but it is.

This Has Nothing to Do with What You Think It Does

When you feel blessed
your are a guitar filled with a sort of image
that evokes Star Trek or something
identifiable, Wallace Stevens, maybe,
or, whatever, a kind of figure
who looks decent in a suit.
The string tie this sort of icon wears is
inevitably black, and also shook
by the shoulders. Monks do the shaking.
Also, priests in clown robes.
Also, meantime, back in your hometown
a certain family exists, as does a certain
family room. Ah, you have slept on this
couch. Also, with the blessings of absolutely
no one, you have experienced what
it means to house-sit and feed cats
and also, not feed cats when there are no longer
cats. I hate the way I choose to communicate.
I'm trying to choose something different
but then I've always believed in my ability
to be wrong. I only say this because
it's true. I even hate that.
It's not so much that I hate it, but, people,
really, the time is right, I'm not
exaggerating, seriously, the light is
on. On here. Over here. On here is.
Blah, da da da. Blah, da da da. Blah, da
da da da da.

Clayton Eshleman

It was a little while
before I understood the bathtub
and the way the invisible people
trot about and the way you
pick them from your shoulder
and eat them or feed
them to your children.
There was a time when I didn't
comprehend much, or, like,
even see the parades
for what they were. I had assumed
I was watching a line of creatures
follow each other through
a sort of road, street, or avenue.
But a new sensation arose,
not alone anymore,
all of my other thoughts began
to creep out of the bushes
and some rose along the highway
like the TV distracting you
from an orange.
There was no where to seat
all these guests.
I could think of nothing. I slowly
raised my head and slung
my Clayton Eshleman.

I Don't Even Know This One

I am definitely coming to grips with
the universe, in the sense
that I am less and less sure
that I have the muscular dexterity
to pinch and, whatnot, grab
at stuff. I can't even be
sure that philosophy is the sort
of thing that fills your vacant legs,
mowed grass in plastic bags.
All of this heaviness is foreign to me,
like all of the languages that
I don't understand, which is all
of them, but one. (I'm so stupid!)
You have ideas? Well,
that is terrific too. I am screaming
at the universe. I have a plot
and a narrative too.

Somewhat, the cover of the new book

I am thinking about colors. And, in other ways, I am also thinking about colors and their relationships. I am also thinking about the cover of a book.