sense memory no. 1

suddenly the sweetness of some fruit

i can't recall. 

memory's mouth models peanut butter, avocado

spread thin onto toasted brown bread

and the saccharine spear implacable 

causes me to heave, breathe heavily 

in hopes of dislodging a pneumonic 

of seeds split and juice spit — an unmistakeable

missing

[for Matthew Rohrer, 062120121546]

a companion to '44. palmate antlers'

their horns clash

and felted dung

flung off in a chunk

a forgotten sacrament 

spills into soil.

[for 44. palmate antlers by adam clemente]

"Change the habit & you change the man." [draft]

they're back on
the lights
and i want to speak to you
about the bathroom door
without mentioning the bathroom
but between us
you & me
i'm thinking about buying a new TV
maybe two
Stone Johnson fades
Stop thinking about it; you've paid your bills
I've had my fill
waking up
Everything are you hungry?
Ballers & Poets sweat in different ways
so... make your own connections
I won't do your homework for you

[don't look at the camera.]

death & a sweet

balancing youth
against youth as the thing heats
grinding his flint
sinew tall & incisor lean

lapping now, she's a burner
death & a sweet
oxidizing dream
cream ballistic, stop and frisk

a billystick he bandies with a fecund brick
passing from hand to hand
darkening venus's thong — drinking whatever slips
from her lips.

Even if a husband lives 200 hundred fucking years, he'll never discover his wife's true nature. I may be able to understand the secrets of the universe, but... I'll never understand the truth about you. Never.

the wire; s1e1 — test

Check the files
perfect round & red
to pink to neon-blue
irrelevant but real
you can't bring back the dead
none can force you to court.

Friday night in the alley
too much information, photographed
and cataloged in America. Black
fingerprints pressed
significantly into bulletproof glass.

untitled 05092012

the appearance of constant movement (merely)
that spotted spider crawling in the cleavage between the floorboards
tires peel along wet road — an imperfect chill — fleshing dimensions
the body, young and unaffected by liquor, fucks better
in tight-roped moments before the roof is ripped into orbit.

Breathless and Sweaty Here on the Sidelines

Adam, is this a printing error?

Had McSweeney's beard-wild intern 

left notes in the galley?

A literary rabbit?

A muzzle flash? 

A clue; smoky fingerprints — whose? — left marginal?

An entropy?

Oh, I see!
This affect-italicized ho-hum — pop, pop, pop 

Playing volleyball with her quote.

dreambook, page 10-11

dreambook, pages 6-9