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Clark Coolidge
from Registers (People in All)
(Avenue B, 1994)
Registers (People in All)

 

33.

Come from the middle and go home. Performing women in a calabash,
haste to display and all plumb. Passing along the way of seamless
parlors, pastures, plates in flight. Today becomes the day

his goldfish thinking stands. Among which, dial the last of the food.
Fuel or its might, which? Thanks for the money, in the park, the rose
stood to land. Found the count of the world in its caves, a guava

would. Bombings? Two moments, just. The second takes a safe lock,
street of red silk. But the term Or the world is right away.
Remember that firehouse angle closed against my chimes. Drilled.

An oblique light on the matter is the matter, double. Tomorrow
the raisins will be making their turns. I am merely to maintain
the lead here. A hopeless handle for all takers. How to find where

the scent comes loose. Birds hop over anyone's brain, perhaps taking.
Glass, that's how the arrow does its leveling. I have to make five
or six or there might be too much food. A day. And smiled at

the stolen stakes. Hear me lady? Be a taste of it yourself and
lend hold of the tool. A fact of second ducks. Too much height hard
to handle, decibel. Then the home street fled open. Walked himself

loose from her gown. Over, that's the way of the sample, turpentine.
But no takers down are known. My fingers spine. The world of food
gets traded for all the rest of the worlds. Arrows to be locked

if the ducks have their say. You are after all with many open lines.
A battle for the handles of many takers. Then as a second light on
thicker deserts. Behind which the jury rehearsed. I may say, safe

and sharp. Rode at dawn at the top of a truck full of birds.
The red people in those mountains. A sharp firing of light on
the obliquer deserts. I opened that street with my sharper picture.

Why not? It's a carved world, a blessing. Ring lock told wake.
Those ducks were someone's brain. The trees once out front are
in your bedroom. Lug the vacuum. It don't quite matter, that ruby

of a world's scissors. Sort of how it would do to hide? Airplanes
in trouble turned off at his desert, a wasted pocket tap touched
again today. A three-inch plane with six aboard extremely difficult

for the thicker drugs. A sickle for eleven, no better than a piercing
buzz. That key emits the squatter music? Four old hands ready to roll
the room in a sugar splay. The chairman of torpor wants his wings.

Just like the news, every scrape that monk loves, outside of his
clothes, his overlap in dew mist slice. How could we be? Car barn
my sense of it is, laugh to the slaughter, holistic peels, drills.

The sliding cracks that came away loose in my fire bend. The handle
of my pocket. The other meant surgery. Pictures requiring radio of
a teacher in a bus. Whose bird gone over the top. Whose latch.

 

34.

Do you continue to serve the hot light? Waist in making its turns,
salads, tamps. My fingers on the world's spines at last ticket
the ruby troubles en masse. Always it is reddish at the tops of

the sharper mountains. I have no trouble. A handle on that tree
came away like news. It was impenetrable to maintain, it was last
to be. Or watch four hours of electric fish. Supposed made safe

the caves all locked away bite. A vacuum is wasted aboard. I wanted
to get the scissors fired up here. Might the matter turn? Thick
ruby on the fire escape, I'm not surprised at the wheat in the sky.

It's pert, this knock. From her gown, the handle taken down. They say
which we have had, touch? Ja. Down with all their says. I am merely
perhaps to find the same locked lines. Flea cap, modest pate.

Light on making their turns. What in the world if the ducks had
fingers? Mountains in the street. Right, the matter of airplane
flare. Surgery cracked and was gone. Ducks in ruby trouble. Hear

my tool? Four old squats, good morning. Behind which dawn at
the top of those mountains a street. Blessing the raisins there
with turpentine. The duck had not set foot on their property. Lugs.

Tolds. Loose in the pictures of any beaches. A pumpable horn.
Double term at the same mill. And then the news of any sugar
in my fire. Other ways to say, which top so sharp? As if were there,

those birds I mean. Trouble after all takes takers. The matter with
airplanes that they won't hide? Mountains rose at that old firehouse.
Lady all ears at the angel stakes, maternal room for the difficult

buzzing. For the lending I come out of log-roll hiding. Why not
a wasted wing? Enroll in rushing around, table map dangling.
I opened those mountains, world. A mighty sharp ring means too much

food. Yourself and the fact of home. Perhaps I have smiled.
The truckers rehearsed at the firing of the light. All there took
a taste of duck. Smiled and walked himself loose. I may say of

birds, they won't. The day of the woman's way of food. Oof. Lucky
needers dialing in a blend of shoe make witness of us all. Even
in this sort of vacuum, nice of you to knock. Smelled a presence.

Out front it didn't quite matter. Six quislings aboard, hands on
their wings. Let's go up behind the beach and love in pockets.
A sample result of birds with too much food. Vacuum failure? Plane

with spine cracks. Did you come home, there was light on, duck?
Airplanes thick again fired on ducks. Perhaps, gravy, you'll talk about
your pictures of spectacles. I am late at dawn with mine.

 


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