weekend voids quickly fill the throng, the song’s importance retelling what you’ve witnessed undersea, out windows at declines, stranger proposes to sandwich, the little boxes filled with deregulated words making snuff films for sound they follow me into pants, one-quarter recognize anyone washing a kid-sized head, em-dashes fall out the munchkin’s ear
but if I’m gonna fake the sag, get bad at invitation, disexamine little planar warts between fingers, lead the evening around by its dissident ass, convert all critical meetings into hot tubs, the wallpaper makes a break for enthusiasm, no, I’m just enthusiastically useless or hated by little e, leopard print eyelids get that plasma welding machine out of your mouth please
Edwin levitating the church said soda scoured his perimeter to give her space untied little ribbons the gum pavements compositions let rise, the phone thinks it needs to send out its chapters, but my weepilies keep being dissolves into lists, would some one please hand me that Morandi? I stole a wee de Kooning from the pinocchio museum in D from Ohio
put it under my jackathon and elopitated with peoples made a mistake with me early on, it’s ok though, it’s part of them and me, photo of bloody sky undresses on desktop, everyone who dies before I’m born keeps being influenced by me and the half-hole, crib performance zone, a mock school receding into outlines, Stuyvesant Fish makes a pitch
for plaque life, flesh dunce, fingered by fog, the kitty implies waving forever, phony greetings forever, or should we say real greetings with phony tonalities which the academies dub affect after the fact, O Pierre! I should have come over for the midnight omelette, but do you know hard it is to be alive & not steal the state mace with a mutating bag
of tricks touching fights with the touched? the suns are falling fast, adjunct suns at one-fifth warmth writhe into contributor copies, at the end of the mouth, endure they longer the selves around sensation accumulate images without eye sockets, everything gets done, it was an always an anti-cop it around here, and and as slowly growing stoned by the village
Anselm Berrigan is a poet. He does other things but isn't the doer of those things. His last book of poetry, Primitive State, is a secret. His new book, Come In Alone, is a singularity.
Title: New Note