if you don’t like this, say so, and I’ll send you something else

by Jim Leftwich

for a naught damaging boost
for a leaf
for challenges we cannot
change or chance
for clearance sales & untold Mondays
for the night is hot and
the consumer is red
to propose the opposite
reclaims no closure
for those farms across unthought wheat
wound no pollution upon the water
where our papers are certified
& our acts unmonitored
for the big axe noun now pounces
upon our permitted potatoes

writers weaving socioenvironmental
ogee weir iteration peoples
months from various kinematic waves

will be present in barchan
landforms biomes clash
with multiplied experiential
borders encountering flow
stability whereby the numes
transverse the united withins

numerous withins merge
openly polarized crescentic
sand dunes inside the text
volumetric instruments
next to the jagged hydraulic
jumps quitting the oral coils
on the verge of cavernous
botany the cat playfully afoot

without tall commitment
must be the mirror in
the worm / fallstreaks
stark mangles in a cup
roll waves for the pierce
of an arrow in each hollow

sustainable combs in a
climate of kale are
upthrown like diets in
a buttery night laminar
without clinical tomatoes

plaid wounds in a gaseous
detour sag liminal socks
no work is calf 20 at two
downdropped cyn and
barrel of turbulent counts

whole people respond that
minimal mirrors resound
what they note among
surfperch betrayal of the
ontic mold tidal bores
less said than fires the
fragrant survey although
the chair is red and
difficult to forecast

an inward arc of delayed feelings
freeing the frayed features the
Vedernikov number their recurring
blurred sense of furry identities
in our usual self-portrait within
point one percent of towering
ceilings swirl like heartbeats
among the welded whales

agglomerate viewe
amusmer dirt
dirt elabo
non-binary Revolution
a mistake
in Ambient Revolu
by solvent ants
Sower two politica
of fascination

iconoclasts the world how
ever welcome along the
spectrum to unwelcome
and back by way of we
are automatic and/or
researched to the teeth

coverlet different stood
streetside and alight
the seasons of justice
lit just so suffering the
urge to think

studies ox shoes it
in a blizzard of
blazes / despite
nuthatch inclod / to
find out what
happened again

carnival and you continue
unlimited festival to Thursday
and free events stark
parade French
at The Onion Father

cultures shared anchovy era
and brough fracas on the
crocus displacememe
our recent problematics
make them better than they
are before stages of
the quail in robbery

10 minutes during some
America the impala
helps the studious
schoolhouse back to
the openly out-of-date

desert albumin
between as was

and original thinkers
of reality

the score preserves the pursuit
the graphic score
the tribal clef

vacuum sheens on the burgeon

I had a dream once, back in the 90s, of living in The House of Poetry. A large house, with several stories and hundreds of rooms. Some rooms were quite large, others quite small, but most looked like fairly normal sized bedrooms. Of course in reality I have no idea. I seemed rather social in the dream, wandering around, visiting. chatting, comfortable in my skin, like a ghost. I knew pretty much everyone, though I’m not sure that I knew anyone very well. It was warm and the windows were open, dust particles floating in the sunstreams. No one seemed overtly or explicitly suicidal, though we all knew better, of course, having read the biographies and seen the films. I didn’t want anything, or wanted nothing, as if I was sitting on a wooden bench in Death Valley at twilight, civil twilight, as a waxing gibbous moon was rising in the first week of an ancient February. Everything we have ever thought has been in the past tense. When I was young, I thought I could write my way out of that. I think I was right about that, but it’s hard to tell from here. The angles are off, and the darkness is thicker than it needs to be. Still, initial conditions, as I recall and/or imagine them, were not required to produce a clear path to The House of Poetry. There has always been a little chaos magick tucked away in the corners of chaos theory.

clergy conspirals
with the families
of dark sluice

surroundire independeep
clearly setting up the
set of the settled tingler

For it is our
before, too
excited to

Trails to get / from the
river to the / Day, and
to see the sea / combing
in a cup!

spice for the lightning / what
corn cone of questions
testimottled / and stamen
what crucible / challerants
as a permissile conduit
from / the dawn of the word
to its very verb-foam
combing the
St. Lawrence River

door Jim Leftwich


tekstbron: inzending ontvangen op 26/10/2021
opgenomen in WEEKBLADEN #57 - MOROSE

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