wb :

The old bells of the city
Are the ones that ring the softest,
Yet the clearest through the air,
The autumn air.

 Their sighing comes to me across the branches,
Echoes off the ivy-scattered bricks,
And wakes me from the beating of my feet upon the road,
The stony road.

O Titan bells of muted bronze,
Release me, if you would, from out your gentle grip,
For vespers leaves us with the shivers of the air,
The autumn air.

You're leaving with the calling bell,
You'll never see how Mother weeps-
Oh, may you see a blessed spell,
And may the heavens weather well.

But come ye back when Summer sleeps,
And Autumn nestles in the well;
And oh! The stories we shall tell!
And, oh!- the stories we shall tell.

I left the city in a daze;
I remember the snow pooling at street corners.
Night constructed blue and clinging haze
to threaten the mourners

with the possibility of a new morning
(how they scrambled, and talked,
and violently ignored each other on the train,)
while the bright edges of clouds were forming
over the hudson river and the drain.

such sights passed behind me, though
I went northward on a steel chain
and thought 'No more of this gyrating flow
and no more sleepless pain.'

so escaped I; there were lawns now,
and wood. The fireflies danced the evening
as I lay, hearing my nieces shriek and play,
holding my fingers against the leavening
stars stretched across the branches like fabric,
waiting for the coming of the day.

and I imagined they imagined I was
a mote on a strange feverish planet filled
with prime numbers and like selves
and pi and beethoven and cups of water on dirty shelves

and I thought if they could do it,
they might very well imagine a dusty me
dreaming of snow on street corners
riding south into a constellation of wonder and spit.

A candle and a table spoon
delores in the living room
she's forgetting all the fables soon

always imagined that time
would freeze for me
like a pet refrigerator
at my beck and call
i thought i
had control of the electricity
supply



the future seemed like a
pale macaron
details unseen but correct
it would be cherry-pie perfect
the chocolate pianos
in the shop window
but



i hadn't counted on
the salt and pepper shaker
storms. or the
wasabi
or the food poisoning
the salt statues
may include me



but you are off
somewhere else
eating eclairs

Softly, sun is rising
I'm gonna begin my day
if I can leave my numb feet at the door,
sleep no more, baby,
it's time to get on your way

used up all my lives
i'm turning the knife in the tale
Let me dream, it's all that's keeping me awake
for your sake,
my body will be a jail

cauliflower fist of gold
combusting in the rain
steam is hot skin when it's rising up
to cup the drops of sky-
after, only tears remain

let me go to there
I wanna dry my hands
and say fuckyou, man to the ceiling
we're stealing the show
and sloping to the badlands

There once was a logician called Steve
Who fucked a mathematician, believe
She waited a week
then peed on a stick
And told him, "dear, I'm contrapositive".

start like this:
fascicle
now forward,
to moscow!
the fads of moustachioed
bound like pages in
a big brown book, berets and black coats
in imitation.

poor brown Stanislaw!
now,
in a ditch in a
                      mug

spit
then,
rot,
mouth of steel, mouth of fog

-- I came to this mud town ere before long
and the harmony of thought,
is equal to the harmony of song)) --

**

but glorious Stanislaw,
we knew him well,
a lass. now gone,
now black like the mud of some last Russian song!
but I came to this town ere before long,

so let me go,
spit!
fog
horse thrust,
i whipped him (he cried, Oh m)
and soon stopped moving and he had stopped moving

pot


fist

left him,

left him there, my raven my lehre
left him for the butterflies and the humming birds
wearing Marx and muddy coats,
he had the body of a clown
so go, fashion figures,
go to! earth now deep,
now shallow, (he is underneath,)
face down