V.47

Writing the last poem was weird
I got to the line where the dog
was scratched, and I felt a scratch at
the back of my head. A tall girl

scratched the back of my head. Then stopped.
In the café she stood in a
phase which lasted a long second.
Then she realised she didn’t know

me. What an oddly nice event.
She was very embarrassed, ran
across, shouted, oh my god its
the wrong person. I talked to a

guy across from me, said, that was
weird, but nice! and he said, it was!
Later I heard them chatting on
about how she didn’t pay mind

to him. Well, her absent minded
nature bestowed me a gift of
a surreal moment I will dream
the way the fabled soul mate comes

from nothing to slide through the door
of unawareness. It was nice
to meet you, anyway. I sat,
wrote this, and calmed down. Life is strange

V.3

The way I approach effective
poetry nowadays is to
sketch as it were many soft lines
that end up suggesting something

is wrong. The water beams across
the board, where swans stain the lakeside
wanderers by entering through
strong paths of light. Conversations

with me and the word processor
create problems. Is it not that
processes simply happen. Is
there nothing we can do to stop

the press, allow us to think more
gesturally, without failure
to account for form, for the sound
of ducks and children talking. To

be, or not worry about teeth
sunk into the skull where process
becomes actual too quickly
and then (god forbid) words exit

and already falsehoods have held
hands and are skipping around old
people, who seem to be running
from death like the black headed gull