A Garden Variety Materialism

Two wooden horses.
Think of that.
Two of them.
Two.
Made out of wood.
Who would do this, to wood?
That particular type of wood.
From a tree.
Said tree doubtless felt pain.
Which ended thus
In the forms of these two.
One horse and then another.
The two of them together.
Two wooden horses.
And their likeness,
Especially their likeness.
Outstanding, this likeness.
To each other, of course to each other  
But also to horses, a horse, the
Perfect horse.
A horse of meat and bone,
Neighing, shitting.
That one.
Different from these.
The two.
The two of them.
Think of that.
Two wooden horses that maybe do nothing or
Maybe do no more than stare at you.
A miracle stare.
Because they are wooden horses.
Because they are neither quick nor dead. 
Because they refuse the apple-bits in your hands.
Two wooden horses.
On my desk.
Did I tell you that already?
That they are here, before me,
Right on my desk.
Like two scullers.
Gliding in weird mist
On the River Arno.
In Florence,
Where the Uffizi is.
Ciao.

ON PERSONAL ALERT

Birds are everywhere in bookstores.  
My cat dragged
the day. It was horrible.

I wish they would resist
what is grilling in their blood,
what the jaw bone preaches when the rest is gone.

The human
animal is more than a pocketful of dimes
and the dimness found there.

BOOKS I WOULD LIKE TO READ IN A WORLD OF ABUNDANT GENEROSITY

Look I don’t have any money. I don’t have any pennies – okay maybe I have a few pennies – but I don’t have any money right now, and I want books, I want to look at books, hold books, I want to look at front covers and back covers, I want to read blurbs the better to understand what I am reading because I don’t understand words too well, I don’t understand poetry yet I read poetry all the time, well not all the time but a lot of the time, and did I mention I don’t have any money, not much anyway, I mean I’m not wandering the streets or anything and I have a lousy job stocking grocery product in a grocery type store, and I hate it but that doesn’t matter, what does matter is that I have no money and I really feel the urge to read some books and the books I want to read are below these words, these are the books I want to read, so anyone? anyone out there? publishers? editors? poets? ... why not? why not send them to me? It doesn’t matter, either way, I’m not asking for a lot, just the books below, send them to me.



Gordon Lish COLLECTED FICTIONS (O/R Books)
Ben Mirov GHOST MACHINE (Caketrain Press)
Daniel Bailey THE DRUNK SONNETS (Magic Helicopter Press)
Sam Pink THE SELF-ESTEEM HOLOCAUST COMES HOME (Six Gallery Press)

America's Favorite Hemorrhoid Cream

a

Swivel it my way
I mean coin
Or coins
Plural is genius my turnips
Gone to far away hills
Dirt on this here map you aren't
Saying it like they said it would be
I'm the disappoyted King of Malaria

b

No matter, cat
We dun brung groggy you home on a hand basket
You kin bite if you like
You kin bate in the lake
I don't care
We all friends here
Killers aint welcome

c

I warn't borne here but I learned
The language I learned the language
Of health and crime I learned
How to praise her pubic kite
You know the famous slogan
I wrote that one I wrote it:
America's Favorite Hemorrhoid Cream
That was me that done that
That totally owned it
Stone cold disowned it

this nothing bicycle

I got up. I said, hello. I said, What is this? I said, I'm hungry. Then it was time to go. I got on my blue bicycle. We're going now. And I was gone. Shooting down the long gravel drive by the silos by the creek by the barn on fire by the school that lay in ruins. I was happy to be riding in the new light. It was night. It was day. I hated to be going so soon on my blue bicycle which I hated and loved it was old and did not work. I grabbed the bicycle, throwing it onto my shoulder. It was nothing. I could have carried it all day. It was heavy. Where is my money? I had lots of money I was rich my father was rich though we were poor beyond my ability to admit how poor we were. I could not say anything to anyone how poor we were. The barns were on fire as I rode happily the gravel road. There was this place I would go to when I was lonely I would go there it didn't seem like much but it was special to me. Maybe it was the time of day that was it the time of day which was always late in the day early evening though there was no darkness on things yet there was light but it was going away. Everything seemed blessed by the light and the fact it was leaving everything. I thought I was a special person. I wasn't a special person. I had seizures. Pale skin. I had red hair and everyone thought I was wrong to have red hair but I had red hair. It was long and fell in waves. I thought I was someone else. I wanted to be someone else but I was only who I was and this made me sad. On my bicycle the world seemed endless to me though it wasn't endless it was only about four or five miles long. I would ride for an hour the time just when day truly ended and night truly began when I got home it would be still light but if I stood catching my breath at home once again it would be dark in minutes. I had everything this is what I would say to myself I have everything. But when you think this it is only the case that you have nothing or hardly anything. My return was perfectly timed. Every time I returned I returned at that moment when it wasn't light or dark it wasn't truly light or truly dark but was a moment of perfect balance between the two. I say it was close and sometimes closer than at other times but always it was perfect. Then I would put my bicycle away in the back yard and hitch it like a horse to a tree. I would hear doors slamming, a gun going off, a siren, a dog bark. Elements that leaned homeward.

sentence

He came to the realization, slowly earned, one gray morning, that he did not believe himself to be entitled to one instant of happiness; not that happiness could not or would not be experienced at some point in his life, but that it would be experienced illegitimately, would be stolen from some other worthier soul, and whatever this happiness might be it would also be the cause of a private agony because at its core it would be rotten.

a thunderhead of number

ooo54133335354335213187479915251635776571670000156002355553020008766990204200207880066254552408786268592005200502500006677562250222430505005250062022509908667673676533003506600653435200421100431442375256700733007034722055660806099566405600605060507000860066060444403053350144252255200052356000607470070470700808808080800546653530035005305303111022331401001050014110020041435145354004145050205205025060306356887540053432525505674770372307070500025020600705070400076060306040004444406060220034525345355646634663465778008050758580009699006000809005895756080508050040607764677668569654444776785858924523242544540606065470005507009065035060570700900440304065064300443455634345646007070080070700605345567570070000567515245454545154344341514553154992958577864295451975791225545248883939522454514148891414556561415678676794098757237666584821240967849302456454525276928676784892456265287562848658456824998667773298785628682659202989478566861286454638198378656652739119834664666475701088318641065147547164801836461408184616564164147776567561651017377374457337017327171223515647656611988876897136764156419686787548282920692767274020227685927206

epigram

Dear Sir -- I am in a Madhouse & quite forget your Name or who
you Are. You must excuse me for I have nothing to communicate
or tell you of & why I am shut up I don't know I have nothing to
say so I conclude.

Yours respectfully

John Clare

***

Clare's letter above strikes me as one of the saddest declarations ever written by anyone anywhere.