When Everything is Bright in Ypsilanti

8/22/2019 When Everything is Bright in Ypsilanti

1/67

When Everything Is right In Ypsilanti

poems by John Farmer


2/67

II think Im

a fine dust

feeling when I think

Im music

feeling

anything

fracturing & dissolving

when touched

like a peach.

Ill reyou,

Ill fa you.

Do you note me

where sensations stand a chance

of being perceptible without artificial light


3/67

IIIve been paying attention to the sky

again tormenting the structure of my silence Time

is like yr voice cycling

now very much so

something different

something like porn music

in the present No star falls

out my mouth an abstract painting

of a line allows us to bounce off each other

throughout night I am distant

because the clocks cant respond

when Im trying not to shatter I wonder what it means

not to be here, to be

the things Ive abolished


4/67

IIIMy body keeps becoming

the object of a future

in the space of a comma

I want to bedissolving like dawn

the instant we touch. Can I even be aware

of how time makes my body delirious

world being whatever yr body voices

meaning there is only so much. I want

to make it seem whole

I mean I want to seem whole

like a montha memory

keeps becoming my body.

I, too, stand in the way

as poems ruin more than I ever like


5/67

IVI like to collect memories

the distance between us

when everything is bright in Ypsilanti.

Teach me how the iron dawn yawnsout theretattoo it on my back.

For now, Ill dream

the past feeds the things

I cant be hidden in.

I hope I remember

to get the ghosts out of my refrigerator

before I see you again.

Im not interested in staying nor going.

Is this not somewhat positive?

The grass is green


6/67

VThe weather is

the memory of a kiss. I am

handsome from a distance

a necessity for repetition

& there is plenty of evening

& yet no blisters & dark color

tomorrow. Im everything

if filled of yr phantomsuntil I undress.

Im coming to terms with yr name

dissolving a warm lightin my speech

draping the need. I need

this absence. I cant inscribe

how I lost

my body. I want to be


7/67

VII want to be lengthy

tho the airs

obsessed with meaning

seems thickening.

Every day is no beginning

again spent in memory

without sweet talk. I am called

lava & water. I am

everywhere. The eucalyptus trees

in my heart could be loved

if I could

be a priest

in the morning

as we become vague again


8/67

VIII think Im

fracturing & dissolving

a fine dust

when touch torments

the structure of my silence

like a peach

feeling Im anything

music feeling when

I think without artificial light.

Ill re you, Ill fa you. Do you note me?

My body keeps becoming

something different out my mouth

I wonder what it means


9/67

VIIIwhen Im trying not to shatter

the instant we touch. Can I even be aware

in the present if sensations stand a chance

of being perceptible

something like porn music?

I want to seem whole before I see you again

in my speech obsessed with meaning

in the morning.

I hope I remember how

the iron dawn yawns out

there when everything is bright in Ypsilanti.

Teach me how the grass is green.

The weather a memory of a kiss

tattoo it on my back


10/67

IXI am handsome

from a distance.

I cant be

the ghosts hiding

in the refrigerator.

Im coming to

terms with the

distance between us

how yr phantoms stand

in the way of a future

I want to be fucked by.

For now Ill dream

the past keeps becoming

my bodyas we become vague again


11/67

XThe eucalyptus trees

in my heart

could be loved

if I could be

lava & water

a priest in the morning

without sweet talk. I want to be

my body. I cant inscribe

how I lost the need inside

this absence. I am lengthy

& there is plenty of evening

yet no dark color

the instant we touch

makes my body deliriousanything music


12/67

XIImagine you cant remember

being away a day from here

until yre done, until Im gone. Tell me,

where do I find this night?

The moon rises bright. I want to remember

when the world was you

as tho you gather, become music.

Its so cold in here I cant do anything.

Snow comes down on Ypsilanti

(& Asia rages miserably below).

The lamp you gave me is lighting up this page

& here I am beating my brains out over spring.

Theres a breeze sort of very much alive

all night too in this poem by me


13/67

XIIYouve been paying attention to the sky again

A wind moves a little desire

here in order to guarantee yr sense of geography

& of course spring comes

& only obscures it without too much need

Light lights in air you imagine

to feel sing the music of

whatever news the future brings to the world

depriving ourselves of potentialities

Take it from me what we need

is each other Heat & substance

sweeter than music to be felt

up for meaningful speech What else do you need to know?

The sky is as blue as its always been


14/67

XIIIhello, hello, it is now early spring

Im going to miss the sun coming up

as you jot down distant sounds & scents

across ourselves thru the fog & gas

I like to collect memories

here in order to guarantee my sense of geography

the instant we touch I feel like a trespasser

of the present constrained & inadequate

passing thru a difference which seems new

& underwhelming What does it all mean?

So one of us builds the past to make

music I wish Id written

in this time I am alive to love you

in this poem by me


15/67

XIVStop telling me I look tired. I know

the night goes on restlessly which explains things

tho the airs obsessed with meaning Well now, hold on

maybe I wont go to sleep at all I just want to

be true tho I seldom enjoy the process

if filled of yr phantoms The grass is green

The weathers ideal for a picnic &

I am handsome from a distance

I know what I look like Tell me how I feel

Theres a breeze sort of very much alive

What is the wind what is it What else can I tell you?

I am everywhere Something else

something else

one minute & not the next


16/67

XVThe lamp you gave me

is lighting up this page

because my doors are opento the ghost or the blue sea.

Its so cold in here I cant be a saint

& there is plenty of evening & yet

no snow comes down on Ypsilanti.

The past is like a bad back

& a style in bed makes history.

Yr goodies dissolving a warm light

are the goodiest goodies I ever did see

in a small space of time

sort of very much alive& here I am

beating my brains out over music


17/67

XVIThe dream is not a map across lines of ourselves

fracturing & dissolving in the practice of our nightly act.

All Im certain of is yesterday passed. Today is

today. A wind moves a little desire.

Give me something more to see anything

if anything common might be lived, feeling

I want to live one long life being really nothing.

The moon rises bright. I flash & yearn.

O ho alas alas when will the bombs from be low bloom?

Look, go search for it, there in the photograph

as if to see whats really going on seeing

how we cant see ourselves. Please dont mention

our real position as electricity replaces memory

& of course spring comes & only obscures it


18/67

XVIIIm handsome from a distance. Theres plenty of evening

if filled of yr phantomsdissolving a warm light

in my speech. I cant inscribe how I lost my mind.

I want to be lengthy in memory without sweet talk.

I am called lava & water. I am everywhere.

The night goes on restlessly & here I am

beating my brains out over spring

until Im gone one minute & not the next.

Its so cold in here I cant do anything.

Perhaps Im kidding myself about the world.

I dont know. Tell me, where do I see what

I love with an appetite? I am faint & weak

only because my doors are open so I took two pills.

Ive undressed as a passing thought


19/67

XVIIIYesterday I invented syphilis.

Today I am going to be eaten by images Every touch

is inventoried, analyzed, nursed in memory.

But it is said there is a sound for each feeling.

Ill have to include all of this in my story.

Private property, thats why Tell me

only happy things I wouldnt believe in the morning.

I want some record of our having been together

& the butterfly isnt alive as a symbol ever.

I mean I want to seem whole before I see you again.

I am faint & weak only because my doors are open

to sing the music of whatever yr body voices

when everything is still in Ypsilanti.

Gray walls fail to bring quiet in the evening


20/67

XIXThe rain is cruel


never enough, tho we look

from the window, gazing

war, pestilence, droughts,

internal strife, inflation

one minute & not the next.

Still not feeling lengthy,

tho the airs obsessed with something.

You shouldve stayed at home.

You imagine you cant remember

love can so wreck the moon,

tho it may kill you any second

when you go out into the street


21/67

XXMy naked weapon is out.

Clearly, I am not a farmer or a milkman.

Can you carry this? I dont want to look pretentious.

Even if yr heart is messy,

I will clean it up. Open Sesame, Ali Baba.

You made me want to be a saint.

Are you my Angel? Why dont you use the door?

I am not afraid of the night.

Well now, hold on maybe

I wont go to sleep at all.

I am using my skin for wallpaper

& cellos call out what I will do to you.

Stop telling me I look tired.

I know what I look like Tell me how I feel


22/67

XXIHello, Ypsilanti. It is dawn. Wake up

& let yourself out of yourself.

Smell yourselves. You smell normal.

Here is my hand craving

progress when desire forms a meaningless twitch.

I remember everyones in love

& flowers pick themselves

when you get here I will undress

but never know why.

A woman is a dark night

after a week of rain & the sun

seeps out of the room.

Yre like a sentence cant be parsed.

Im so happy. Words fail me


23/67

XXIII have no sense of touch. Oh, how I want

to make someone happy. I feel funny

when these feelings of weakness occur.

There are far more queer things about living in this city.

I do not hear the events around me &

there is no other alternative than to despise

all the Tom Waits impersonators

just shouting outside &

everything seems just incoherent,

sort of mechanical & I cant tell

what is serious & what isnt.

Is it really? I havent the slightest idea.

There seems to be no historical explanation

for anything rational to happen


24/67

XXIIII want to be enough & not too much

but wanted to write about this whole thing

to last all night long. We live

in a city the heavens have refused & still they mean

something. Tell me, again, who I am

only happy things I wouldnt believe in the morning

I have disappeared with the voice of a bird.

No, no, thats not right but it may happen to me

in the light of absurd reality but I am not someone

who likes to wound tomorrowopen for music.

I am delirious & I know it. Forgive me.

The rain stirs desire. The weathers the memory of a kiss.

I am aware I want you more than a word

because I never confuse names


25/67

XXIVIve been paying attention to

my body becoming the sky,

the eucalyptus trees

when Im trying not to shatter.

I have no sense of touch. Oh,

how I want to be enough

& not too much.

It is now early spring.

The rain is cruel, tells me

I look tired. I know

theres plenty of evening

across lines of ourselves.

My naked weapon is out.

Hello hello


26/67

XXVI just want to see what I love

with an appetitefracturing & dissolving

tho the winds tormenting the structure of my silence

the distance between us.

The memory of a kiss

is lighting up this page.

I feel funny

in a city the heavens have refused.

Rain comes down on Ypsilanti

the instant we touch.

The moon moves a little desire

as the night goes on restlessly

while I jot down distant sounds & scents



27/67

XXVIIm not interested in staying nor going

when Im trying not to shatter

my body. Do you note me

becoming the things Ive abolished?

For now, the grass is green,

Ill dream sweeter music to be felt

I am alive in this time to love you.

I am everywhere.

Please dont mention love

can so wreckthe moon.

Does it really? I havent the slightest idea.

Teach me how the rain stirs desire

as the weathers the memory of a kiss

seeping out of the room


28/67

XXVIII am called anything

yr body voices.

No star falls in the present

without sweet talk.

The weathers ideal to feel

constrained & inadequate

one minute & not the next.

I have disappeared

Are you my Angel?

with the voice of a bird

feeling Im everywhere

beating my brains

out over Ypsilanti

as flowers pick themselves


29/67

XXVIIII want to remember

when the world was

lava & waterthe instant we touch.

Can I even be aware?

Tell me, again, who I am

tattoo it on my back.

Every day is no beginning

& there is plenty of evening to gather

the structure of my silence

tho I seldom enjoy the process

to guarantee my sense of geography.

Give me something more to see. Its so cold

in here I cant be a saint anything.

Open Sesame, Ali Baba


30/67

XXIXI want to be abbreviated or the blue sea

A wind moves a little desire

thru the fog & gas

I am faint & weak

only because my mouth is open

maybe I wont go to sleep at all

Even if yr heart is messy

beating the ghosts out of my brain

& of course spring comes

when Im musictouch torments

memory in the space of a comma

I just want to be fucked now

very much so

because my doors are open


31/67

XXXHello hello.

The rain is cruel

without sweet talk.

The lights are out.

Do you note me?

I flash & yearn

very much so

like porn music

but not so sweet

Tell me I am.

I could love you

like a warm light.

For now, Ill dream

wild, wild horses


32/67

XXXIThe rains stirs desire

in the morning

as flowers pick themselves

which explains things

I wanted to tell you

Atoms & dreams

are lighting up this page

In this city

times like yr voice cycling

until Im gone

& these sounds are not words

if I could be

each golden trace of light

& not too much


33/67

XXXIITime makes my body delirious

like a peach anythingsomething

like porn music.

You made me want to be

a saint the instant we touch

only happy things I wouldnt be-

lieve in the morning.

I dont know. I feel like a trespasser

if filled of yr phantomsso I took two pills again.

Now theres plenty of evening

if anything common might be lived, feeling

theres no other alternative than to despise

everyone is in love

& yet no lava & water


34/67

XXXIIII dont know but it may happen to me

meaning there is only so much I want.

I cant containwhatever newsthe future brings to the worldmy body

when touched as lava & water

until I undress yr phantoms.

No, no, thats not right.

I am not afraid.

The moon rises bright.

I flash & yearn

yr goodies dissolving in my mouth.

I will undress the night

when you get here

until Im gone


35/67

XXXIVI hope I remember to seem whole

depriving ourselveslike a peach

of potentialities. Its so cold

in here I cant do anything.

I want to be true tho the airs obsessed, meaning

when will the bombs from below bloom?

O ho alas alas Well now, hold on maybe

everything seems just incoherent

without artificial light

bouncing off each other.


how yr phantoms stand like eucalyptus trees.

What does it all mean? Tell me how I feel.

I know what I look like


36/67

XXXVIll fa youeverywhere as clocks

cant drape the needlike a month

until Ive undressed each other music.

You imagine you cant remember

I am delirious. Forgive me. I know it

like heat & substance. What else can I tell you

I want to be fucked after a week of rain?

I am using my skin for wallpaper.

I wish Id written sun. Tell me

when everythings bright in Ypsilanti

the pasts like a bad back

as if to see whats really going on

to find this night like a memory

Do you note me?


37/67

XXXVII wonder what it means

not to be here where sensations

stand in the waythe instant we touch

I keep becoming

the weather sort of

very much alive. The breeze is

a kiss or a memory something else.

Im so happy. Words fail me.

Stop telling me

I look tired. I am aware

I want you more than a word.

There seems to be no historical explanation.

Is this not somewhat positive?

What else do you need to know?


38/67

XXXVIIThe skys as blue as its always been

in this poem by me

& of course springs here &only obscures it

as rain falls on Ypsilanti

I wonder what it means to be my body


while poems ruin more than I ever like

so Ive undressed as a passing thought,

took two pills & went into the street

to become vague again

delirious while beating Moby Dick

over anythingperceptible, music

without artificial light



39/67

XXXVIIIWhat I want is not momentarily here.

I just want to see what I love with an appetite

to sing the music of whatever yr body voices

the distance between us. A wind moves a little desire.

The weathers constrained & inadequate

as I jot down distant sounds & scents


in the practice of our nightly act

as we dissolve one minute & not the next.

I feel funny a fine dust

fracturing the object of a future

as Asia rages miserably below.

Are you my Angel? Clearly,

I am not a farmer or a milkman


40/67

XXXIXI was a singer once In distant trees

the night goes on restlessly Here I am

after a week of rain & the sun seeps

fracturing the object of a future

while poems ruin more than I ever like

meaning there is only so much I want

You may consist of dancing animals

within this midnight city I suppose

its said there is a sound for each feeling

I know what I sound like Tell me I feel

like a breeze sort of very muchreal

in this time I am alive to love you

Disappear between the moon & earth of the instant

Open Sesame, Ali Baba


41/67

XLCan I even be aware like a peach

seeming something different whole?

Im coming to terms with feelingyr name

& there is plenty of winter to remember

how I lost the need when the world was

lava & waterdepriving ourselves of potentialities

without too much need. I want to be true

or underwhelmingthe blue sea.

I know what I look like. Tell me how I feel

tho I seldom enjoy the process

in order to guarantee my sense

to see anythingO ho alas

alas I cant be a saint

when the bombs from below bloom


42/67

XLII cant write about this whole thing

like a wound open to tomorrows music

making someone happy. I feel funny.

Clearly, I am not a farmer or a milkman.

I wont go to sleep at all. Ill reyou,

Ill fa you the way a future

comes down on Ypsilanti. Tell me,

this absence moves a little desire

with an appetite as you jot down

sounds & scents sort of very much

alive in the practice of our nightly act

lighting up this page as we become vague.

Perhaps Im kidding myself

about the world. I cant tell


43/67

XLIIThe lamp you gave me

is lighting up this page.

Heat & substance guarantees

my sense of geography each other

when everythings bright

I cant bein Ypsilanti. I want to be fucked

till Im a fine dust obsessed with meaning.

Do you note me like a month

a memory dissolving like dawn?

Im delirious, I know it. Forgive me.

I dont want to look pretentious

when these feelings of weakness

appear after a week of rain & sun.

Im using my skin as wallpaper


44/67

XLIIII wonder what it means

as the night goes on restlessly


sounds & scents sort of very muchHere is my hand, craving

like a peach anythingsomething

lengthy like a future


& here I am beating

the scattered ghosts of what happens

to love But I still want

feeling when I think I cant be

handsome from a distance

because they accused me of poems


45/67

XLIVI think Im lily cotton & limit

after a week of rain & the sun seeps

bruised with rays. Yr body voices when touched

my desire is inconsequential

tho the airs now very much so our mouths

seeping out of the room. Tell me I am

an island to make me seem wholea song

to be traded for a smile, the sound of

anythingpine needles falling. I know

its said there is a sound for each feeling

in the morning something differentto love

for anything rational to happen.

Forgive me dissolving like dawn Oh god,

I am using my skin for wallpaper


46/67

XLVWhat else do you need to know? I have disappeared

O ho alas alas Well now, hold on maybe

everyones in love. The moon rises bright.

Gray walls fail to bring quiet in the evening

with patterns. The scattered ghosts yr body voices

depriving ourselves of potentialities

one minute & not the next & of course fall comes

again tormenting the structure of my silence.

Perhaps Im kidding myself. I am not someone

or a scale-map of the entire universe.

Do you note me like a month can so wreckthe moon?

I want to seem whole before I see you again.

But I cannot sing no song until Ive undressed

the sound of words as they fall away from our mouths


47/67

XLVII know

the rain is cruel

like God.

The lights are out

feeling

atom and dream

a song.

The weather is

our mouths


to love

when the world was

yr name

but not so sweet


48/67

XLVIII am faint & weak

as rain falls on Ypsilanti

the instant we touch

tho the airs obsessed with meaning.

I keep becoming


to tell you Nothing

of what happens while the heart twists

yr body voices

performs some complicated

symbolic dance with


dissolving like dawn

all night too, in this poem by me


49/67

XLVIIIThe weathers ideal to feel

oh I dont know.

No star falls in the present


& why I love you so much

& not too much.

Tell me, again, who I am

when the world is

confined to the flesh only.

Take it from me

alas I cant be a saint

in this city.

My naked weapon is out.

Hello hello


50/67

XLIXIn the distant night, children are singing

what we have lost or never thought. Thats why

when I lay down to sleep, its all pork chops

& the wornout rainbows that time suffers.

Beauty is so rare a thing, Pound once sang

& he is goneor, at the very best,

in a city the heavens have refused

& here I am still not feeling lengthy.

Im thinking this wasnt what I wanted.

What if I went crazy for a moment?

Yesterday I invented syphilis.

Today I am going to write a poem

to be traded for a smile, or the sound of

a kiss or a memorysomething else


51/67

LThe moon rises bright. I wanted to tell you

of how time makes my body delirious

lily cotton & each golden trace of light

with my tongue full of loving & agony.

I am not someone I want to remember

when everythings still in Ypsilanti.

Are you my Angel? I have no sense of touch

to guarantee a use for geography.

I am faint & weak as flowers finger themselves

Again, I dont know why this always happens

the instant we touch. You want me to tell you

the night goes on restlessly & here I am

writing the same poem & these sounds are not words

just a hole white emptiness we could fill it


52/67

LIThe rain stirs desire without artificial light.

There seems to be no historical explanation

to love but I still want like all the novels Ive read

& there is plenty of evening to remember

the distance between us within this midnight city.

I want to live one long life being really nothing

& a colored fountain before I see you again

so I took two pills. Ive undressed as a passing thought

seeping out of the room. My heart is full of paper.

I want some record of our having been together

(tattoo it on my back) where sensations stand a chance.

I have become lost many times along the Huron

with the voice of a bird & there was darkness hanging

in my speech. I cant inscribe how I lost my body


53/67

LIII am aware I want you more than a word

to guarantee my sense of geography

if anything common might be felt

like heat & substance. What else can I tell you

I want to be fucked after a week of rain?

Of how time makes my body delirious?

& of course fall comes & only obscures it

with my tongue full of loving & agony

in the present if sensations stand a chance

over anythingperceptible, music

that had to be included in our poetry.

I am thinking this wasnt what I wanted.

A cello calls out what I will do to you.

Are you my Angel? Why dont you use the door?


54/67

LIIIHello, hello, it is now early fall.

All Im certain of is yesterday passed.

The sky is as blue as its always been.

I want to remember when the world was

only happy things I wouldnt believe

between the moon & earth in a breath.

Are you my Angel? Dont you use the door?

Ill reyou, Ill fa you. Do you note me?

O ho alas alas Well now, hold on

everything seems just incoherent.

Stop telling me I look tired. I know

what I look like but tell me how I feel


I am alive in this time to love you


55/67

LIVI want the wind lost from its valleys


the memory of a kiss. I am


in the practice of our nightly act

tho the airs obsessed with meaning.

My body keeps becoming a map.

I wish Id written sun. Tell me,

in 4 AM sounds & river air

the moon is tied to a few strings,

the wind moves a little desire


more than these shadowsbut it is you

seeming something differentwhole


56/67

LV

I cant be a diamond bruised with rays.


without touch like goda fine dustI wish Id written sun. Tell me

something else to know anything

sweeter than music to be felt

tho the airs a song youif I

Oh, how I want to be enough

anything when touched. Forgive me

& let yrself out of yrself

like a peach feeling the patterns

even if yr heart is messy

an island. I know. Im music

seeming different somethingwhole


57/67

LVIMy body keeps becoming a map

(Every touch is inventoried, analyzed, nursed in memory)

seeming different somethingwhole


I wonder what it means

You want me to tell you

(My naked weapon is out)

Nothing in my body escapes me

I daydream of some shore a long way off

when Im trying not to shatter

Tell me, again, who I am But not so sweet

Im coming to terms with

the moon is tied to a few strings

yr name


58/67

LVIIYou want me to tell you

Nothing in my body escapes me

Im trying to imagine

wild, wild horses

birds heading west

when I ask the psychic to patch me

with white dots, & laid end to end.

Mysterious Trucks & trains go east

in 4 AM sounds & river air

but it is said there is a sound for each feeling,

& these sounds are not words

so much somebody elsesWhat if I went crazy for a moment

if again. I always get to change minutes


59/67

LVIIII was a singer once In distant trees

within this midnight city I suppose

Im lonely in Ypsilanti This much is clear

I am the land

while the heart twists, disappears

down in the world tough as smoke

But I cannot sing no song

I have not sung

I am thinking This is false in any poem

Like a dream is

Or a scale-map of the entire universe

& why I love you so much

This much is clear I am thinking

This is almost goodbye


60/67

LIXI am thinking this wasnt what I wanted

to say. I wanted

to tell you I want the wind lost from its valleys

& the wornout rainbows that time suffers.

(My heart was full of paper

& a colored fountain.)

Here in the dark they remain open, become things

to be traded for a smile or the sound of

the negative that cannot happen


I am thinking

I could love

you if I

were a dove


61/67

LXIt is as if we conjure

the dead & they speak only

within this midnight city.

The customers complain that they dont

look very much like Tarot cards. So I

skip through the narrative

& concentrate on the coffee

& feel no terror in her gait of loneliness.

I am thinking most things happen

in twilight. I am thinking

that does not really

offend the F.B.I.

that yr body could be Ypsilanti

or a rain soaked road


62/67

LXISee sky surrounded.

Bruised with rays.

My heart is

full of paper,

lily cotton &

shadow. I swear

I could love

you if I

were a dove

performing a complicated

symbolic dance with

my tongue full

of loving & agony

& a colored fountain


63/67

LXIIThe sun becomes a nest of singing birds

& she is gone so the heart breaks

Beauty is so rare a thing, Pound sang

I can no more remember Love

that had to be included in our poetry

more than these shadowsbut it is you

I am wishing Happy Independence Day.

You have not listened to a word I have sung.

You were looking for a naked man

who would be like a river but I am the land

or like a high-branching firtree.

I mean I dont look the same

(the leaves I mean) the leaves fall

on fuzzy heads of fuzzy people


64/67

LXIIISo yesterday I invented syphilis.

Today I am going to write a poem

to the reader of a poem

or watch sunset fall upon that beach like others do.

This wasnt what I wanted to say.


I could love you

if I were a dove.

The waves are meant for drowning

but when God is short entering the room

the sun becomes a nest of singing birds

& he is goneor, at the very best,

a minstrel show impeccably played



65/67

LXIVI am thinking I keep

writing the same poem,

gaining & losing something

with patterns. The scattered ghosts

of what happens while the heart twists

sings still deeper, conjures by its spell,

disappears down in the world.

When everything is bright in Ypsilanti

nothing in my body escapes me

without touch.

You hide nothing. You cannot imagine

This is false in any poem

Like a dream is

an island


66/67

LXVI want the wind lost from its valleys

& the wornout rainbows that time suffers

Remember when Rimbaud died

he became older than yr alphabet

I am thinking this wasnt what I wanted

to say. I wanted

to tell you Nothing

in my body escapes me

without touch Understanding

is not enough Each finger

is a real finger

to love But I still want

them. I keep writinggaining and losing

the same poem something with patterns


67/67

LXVII am the land (each day

& I have bowed

to the king of the swans

& the roots

that are gathered along

(has new withdrawals

sweet honey from yr drunken bones.

Love you have not listened to

a word I have sung

should remain letters

that does not have something

analogous to poetry in it

or so distant that our hearts

could take care of themselves

Documents

When Everything is Bright in Ypsilanti