Frontispiece by Robert Mittenthal

Develop a nose for noise. That is, stop decoding and begin to get a nose for the sheer noise of language…  Or stop listening and begin to hear…  -S. McCaffery

Indefinite as a grid
the appointed fruits of striated time

Growth a twisted equation where the land grab begins 
Edge of lake where ground rises

I’d heard ripples are the folds that net indifference 
Location less time to chase what form yields 

Imported ambiance that saved our gambit 
the business of living widgets

Location less a predicate than an imposition. 
Where the tides of discipline net nothing – a cotton sieve for the body’s whim.

I don’t understand name address phone number.  It’s more a taxonomy of minor thirds marching to a different drummer.  The misplaced memory of public inaction.  Let’s call it a conference of errors.

It’s a reminder not to be written.  A motion to figure angular sums.  Green for the art of backdrops.  An exaggerated portrait like a hole in a snowbank.  Green, or white and green: its patron saint a satin stain.

Nothing improves nostrums of habit.  So much better than I am, it takes character, standing in the dead air where the future blurbs itself.  An outlook less blue and so full of itself.  Adrift in white, it burns, all drag weight and jubilation –a terminal embrace of physical impurities.