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Docenture: fog

Landscape is undercelebrated. Along coast
or up mountainside in pilgrimage this color
fondles the earth, wet in the dark morning. The trust
felt at the onset of travel becomes dolor.
What have you left? Behind and in front of you, mist
threads direction with regret. You cannot follow
so wander, small. So slow to traverse our greatest
hall. Immense, opaque. There, you find a lone sculpture
we sought out for occlusion. A glass box with nest
inside. An unhatched egg sits in tufts of eider-
down having forgotten to become. Your own lost-
ness occurred prior to any labyrinth. Scour
memory for a shred of bird and own your curse–
fog lifts. A field of wings, torn from flight. The hand yours.

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Cougar Kill

My notebook slipped from my pocket as I grasped
hawthorns and scotchbroom for purchase. My last note

described the elk bones, the scattered tufts of hair.
How quickly a member of earth expires and sinks

into dirt. Slick furs flatten over bloating organs
as horseflies buzz and gorge. I know such hedonism.

When I scramble through thicket brush, I am not
thinking of pleasure, not the glorious bends of my back.

Skeletal remains appear always to lurch forward, a body
fleeing itself. The blackened flesh clinging to skull

shows no metaphor, because a metaphor should want.
Ahead of the body, we crush a path in search of the puma.

We look for a bed, find only where he dragged the cow
over a log. All skulls eventually smile in repose. I tsk at

a leaf-flat water bottle, a plastic doll with a caved-in face. 
Somewhere, my notes tell a story in data. Seven molars.

Gnawed whistle tooth. GIS points. A spiral notebook 
splitting and sogging in dense understory. I pull thorns

one after the other from my neck. I’ve disturbed ever,
everything I’ve touched. How dare I miss one thing. 

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neap tide— autumn, page 3

neap tide— autumn, page 3

the whelked & jinxed intertidal
furbelows seaweed —

a boat neaped — you’ve got to be
kidding me  I say five times a day

waved like the enridged sea —
if I could take the sound of you into

my mouth I would 
work double tides —

on the impossibility of measuring the coastline 
shorter stretches of evening— a quarantine

•for April I will try to work out one page of a draft per day from a long poem in sections of 10 pages each

on the impossibility of measuring the coastline — photographs by artist Mary Frances, from the series Isolated Spaces XLVII, 9 May 2020,

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have a bad feeling; change it. simplest just
to move, but if not move, move where you are
in space. your pain need not be personal.
this place, though equilibrium-y, all
cozy, encased, ain’t care except the care
you contrived coated in clover dust.

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Occult clouds dance in my galactic mom
She spirals like a raptor in descent and

Loss sugars the poison nest no longer mine
Or I will be which is to say I will

Drown in the plastic nexus
emit manatee sleet to sea change
Sense a tense never
Tense a never sense
Sense a never tense
Sense a never tense
My manic gusts a quiddity
Dissolve membranes for life

To stay alive and totalitarian 
I smite the children with real gusto 

The avenues of exult and wobble
My tottering fates despots and goddesses

[scrying Joyce Mansour's Cris, section 2]
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Once the Hoping Becomes an Apotheosis of Hoping

— after Farrah and Jared

To have trouble being loved but to fuck in a spirit of abundance

Because matter is bruising, hurtful, gleeful

To beget a dowdy glutton

Because George Clooney is blurbing the Bible

To catastrophize the enormity of an exhausted consciousness
Because old carnal lullabyes suddenly outnumber shit troughs

Because if a child is curled pearl
If a summer gets separated from its translucent humidity
If an outright legend lawn oaf finally sets down a light foot

Because chantress

because lunchbox

because loudmouths begrudging thunder

Because an embittered donut turns surfers into pasta
with heaving stained back pants
with need and thread and jelly beasts

and glitter outnumbering shoguns

and trebling sourdough

and shuttered ogling

For being close to remembering what an angel is multiplied by (4?)
For the rough river’s running on stout tender loins with whatever star is speaking now
For the sake of Staten Island Hitler’s trickle of supertall water pets

With hands as antennae to send and receive medicine

With a gust of abundance and YouTube premium

With velour feelings in fierce focus

and beginner gutters

and abattoirs

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You’re frozen can you hear me now yes now I can hear you

In winter fullness

Up to my ears with warmth

Wide open spaces over my mother’s shoulder

Write shell membrane

An email with data

Now that Americans wear masks there’s mask litter

Next to normal litter

The only thing that’s full in Spring is death

If you want to plan a trip go to kitty heaven

That which you love will save you

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Burn Prayer

C brushes past hardhacks and they burst into a cloud

of yellow. I finger an evergreen huckleberry, its leaves

purple in the sun. Dead bracken fern crunches beneath

me, a culprit of flash burns. Today’s burn level: moderate.

Surfactant foam rims previous extinguishes. Red water

dumped from helicopters. It has been centuries. “The black”

describes a tree so hot the fire smolders within the cambian.

I think of the scientist yesterday who pointed at a great cedar

log and called its heartwood rotted. C points to where loggers

felled centuries-old cedars. Stumps must always face upward, 

ancient rings staring into a dumb fuck heaven. We pluck 

labrador tea with permission, soft yellow cotton beneath. 

My phone circles and circles itself looking for purpose, 

internet a swirl of energy that chews up highways’ worth

of emissions. I will never be right about any of this. 

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Annals of Infamy

Next year at the seed bank in Svalbard

Or as the tanker trolls Valhalla

Under a glamp tent in the Elqui

Or inside a sperm whale off starboard side

In the smoking dragon’s dream

By eclipse light, lit by birthday candles

With a cantata playing on demo

Full on oat milk and earl grey lattes

Replaying stockfish against komodo

Beneath the embankment wheatpasted

With posters of Art Deco cruise ships

On a codex crammed in an amphora

Where the rivers turn to rapids

And the surfboarders surface

In the blue glow of the green rays

While I heave the backpacks open

To put into them something weightless

Telling time on the kids’ judy clock 

Identifying beasts by their heartbeats

My first impulses viral

Quality is only one of the textures

Of the colorless green ideas that furiously rain

Invisible snot underneath real numbers

In tunnels of chimerical synonyms

You can’t choose your friends

But you do choose you

Said the basilisk to the gryphon

In the valentine’s margins

Holding a liquid animal in its arms

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we perceive time. every try to prove it
otherwise – even over oceans – went
the same: we possess a sun inside us,
loyal to rhythm, our sugar clock.
in a cave, in a daze, inlook and out
we’ll reroute. precise as quartz, as swift.

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Docenture: pale

Not there quite. If ghost, then fetal.
If blue, reflected on steel sea. If alive

then sickly. If sickly, thin and. If a thought
the itch of one. Or mint then, if knot. If

a song, minor. If poem, dirtpoor couplets
courting exile in too-thin coats. If we, then

we spectral, and irrelevant by act two.
We lie. Still. All pale is is performance.

To reach wan, poke a digit through.
Since Duchamps’ Since, pale is

a gash untranslated thru pixel. If given
to that vice, keep coding. Growing cold.

Crossing over, note a night of northern color
closing in. Not watery, quiet. A starry violin.

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neap tide— autumn, page 2

neap tide— autumn, page 2

form is content — content is form — it is the only commandment
but there is no shape to days

the long border of an evening intertidal
never resolves itself never dissolves 

never solves for any variable —
it is simply stretched beyond recognition

or usefulness — a king of nothing
& nowhere — but if we want

process not product — which we do — then
it will be evening all season & we will stretch into it

•for April I will try to work out one page of a draft per day from a long poem in sections of 10 pages each

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Hey Jaime, tip this bus with the ruffle in your jam.
Hey Jaime: Corset Tuition Union Fisyk Decay--a quint! 
Or: tongue-to-tongue in a barnstorm, malcontents
Tempt riders, tempt rivers hovering in the fiery air
Your vile love, my evil tent, tendentious haunt you’ll someday vent
May you know it all, from root to rot in your finest silvery dress 
unfurling like the vengeance of a mensch
who anoints passers-by with quiet incense 

[scrying Joyce Mansour's Cris, section 1]