Prose

Post-glamorous incompleteness theorem. Paused in a line of force: two people talking past the monkey in the middle, hands arrested halfway to his ears. Banal necessary connections: ass to seat, eyes to page, cup to lips, vibe to air. The medium is tall. People work at their computers stacking virtual bricks. Brick _____ house. We are all turning whiter in the hillside light except for a negligible percentage. Christ is coming in a white apron with breasts behind. Sexual stick in the anthill, ringing pockets. Midst of this. Should I fly to Germany or France? Should I sail a fellowship to its end? Amcha—our nation—anguish. The young man's sotto voce—it's a woman on the other end. He speaks so not to startle her. He flourishes rank privacy. Two black brows striving to be one. What itches: the pronoun. This embarrasses the floor, that’s recognized by a chair. I came down on the volleyball, I just kind of hit it. Broke it. I did fracture. Six weeks. Hand in this weather, my crutches slick. Adjustable like the boys of summer rising and falling in that Don Henley video. A Henley's a collarless shirt primitively squibbed on Gene Hackman doing the bullet dance in front of a garage. Blood suggests itself and we are progressively obtuse from Bonnie & Clyde to Unforgiven. Out of this country I'll think in sentences. Grammar will bare its thighs on a narrow pension staircase. Wo ist? Es gibt. Il pleut. Suggests a man behind it all, even this.

Why isn't folk music about the folk any more? A woman alone with her guitar and her brief history of empowerment. If we sing along are we folked? What people sing in their cars: gospel, 50 Cent, Britney Spears. Something scrolls by: the idea of musical neighborhood. Does my lack of affect signal a hidden drama? What's the subtext to my noodle? Rules for improvisation: a large bad picture smashed over Buster Keaton's head. He steps through the window to star in American Gothic. Kevin Spacey bleeds on it. Simulation of paint peeling off weathered wood and metal. What sacrifices we've made for our aesthetics of consumption! Where's the heroic worker's angular piston’s potency? Equality on these terms. People walk by with cords trailing behind their backs to the places they are known. There's a small audience for this. Am I sufficiently literary on the bus? I missed my moment, I go on missing it. Last of the big-time bloggers turns out the light when he leaves. Rotten eggs. While this hand is moving the other one can rest.

Iron cagematch and the tragedy of the work ethic: spinning our wheels in solitary for the salvation of a social whole. Broken axle, snow. Its sibilance blisses out the kneelers. Stuck CD makes a partial flutter, a melody perpetually getting up off its chair. A beat you can dance to, infrathin. I don't have to read the news if I don't want to. I can be poor and get a tax break. It's never been easier to make up your mind. Italy? Windswept plain outside Pisa, find Pound’s misnamed mountain. I certainly do like dogs. Mount Misnomer, hung juries, legal lynching. Is there a music to this I don’t recognize? If I refuse the myth of mother's heartbeat stacking iambs by the curb? The long I's peculiar to English, no? I prefer an O to funnel my residual religious feeling. Message in a bottle. Are there prodigies of faith, little Mozarts of credulity? Pleasure isn't pleasing. Am I interesting enough to write like this? Little dog, roll over. The author is born free but is everywhere in chains. Only the second-hand divides the unmemorable afternoon. An inch of accumulation expected. Times you forget where you are. Those are real flowers on each glass table. I hear it's a Christian place—see the saw over the door painted with "Give us this day our daily bread." A saw like you cut trees with. Some redundancy there in the department. Acts of vanishing. Once you've repeated yourself there's a style.