Listen to the sky grow harder and colder to.

Off the end, off a wrap, a singer's kyrie, some crowd of

open-mouthed teens in a half-circle, exhaling.

The comfortable leg-crossed position an adjustment.

(Found at rope.) Hangs off splintry back porch like a threat.

The boys yelling, sure. This family too intellectual for.

Incredulous, reporters reported people in Sarajevo sad

at an American basketball player's retirement, while bombs

fell outside. You thought, ride something like. Check again

to be sure. (Despite whatever warm weather absence.) Kilroy

he was back from the other side, he is Pynchon's circuit, he

is vita nuova, yes, but is he serious? Graph paper

makes it easier to figure but dimensions remain nearly exact.

I think mine may need some sort of door gasket thingy.

Postcard, of forlorn workaholic s-f writer, call this. ("Work.")

I heard gunshots and car door slam in rapid succession.

At first there were more sentences here. Mask it as

no longer gun, no. Call it some, um, sleep, call an

artifice called death, to another artifice called aware, to

six and a half inflamed organs torn out of our sight

(James Randi disproved Philippino faith healers) but

he looked so calm lying there losing.

Blood god like a horrorshow. Blood, rushing down

his head, and an itchy feeling, an itch. "She said

she saw you in a car and waved but

you just looked at her funny; I said that

must have been the old you, and explained."

Only a stabbing at the laundromat. Nothing.

You plant posts into the earth; it is a project

that will carry you to the new horizon as defined.

Absorbtion, adsorbtion, comsumption, ague.

Each long lobe flattened in your hand by twilight.

(He failed to yield his claim.) Listening but

no longer watching the full sound of.

Hands wet, he realized he was enacting some baptism

and so almost stopped himself, then splashed the ocean water

on his face anyway, to the bafflement of his old friend

a dozen paces behind him up the beach

who no longer really knew him at all. The storm, the wind

acorss the dirty beach at Savin Rock at night,

a crippled gull twitched on the sand and I was unable

to kill it. The filthy wind pounding us both, I fled in shame.

Oil wasted on the ocean floor, fish

full of mercury. We always are having to sacrifice

something, it seems. I lie on the bed with my legs crossed

and wonder if, no sleep yet. A sallow demi-monde, this

with such that an expensive drink will still an emission.

Until no parentheses no less appealing forwards.