ACCOUNT OF MY DAYS

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6 7 8 9 10
11 12 13 14 15
16 17 18 19 20

  keyword(s) in poems:

Sequence: 8

REVEALED BY SPLITTING
my face is of oak...

12/14/96
a voice saying...

MAKING SENSE ON A SNOWY MORNING
my woods fill up with snow...

POINT AT WHICH
the speaking of the heart...

MY HUNGER
I have turned my stones...

MIDNIGHT
midnight your moonlight...

12/23/96
after the singing...

untitled
walk out Eric...

EGYPTIAN
the words which took...

ING
lean sleep...

IN MEMORIAM F.B.
his house of lead...

HOW TO GET THERE
go till the snow falls...

PLAN:
throw four stones...

MY STRUGGLE WITH MY WEIGHT
Mornings around here there is so much fog in the trees...

1/2/97
strange life with...

DARING ABSENCE
the seeing blind man...

FACE THE NATION
1. the fine line in my tranquility...

FOUR BY FOUR
objects I have turned...

untitled
in the waste of sky...

GOOD AND ILL FORTUNE
go through me...

1/17/97
the snow blows the road is battered...

CRITICISM OF SHOVELLING
my stubborn back keeps working...

POET'S DILEMMA
words running up and down...

REQUIREMENT
am I empty yet...

I WROTE THIS WHILE THINKING ABOUT WRITING IT (TITLE LAST)
warm air makes the snow soften...

POEM AS IT HAPPENS
rain gets to fill the spaces used...

EYES AND EARS
eyes very involved in silence...

PROSE POEM ON THE BAKERS (NO COMMAS)
I always see the bakers when I am in a hurry walking past the door...

HELP MIDWINTER
no work snow flies like doves...

THEFT OF LINES FROM THE GNOSTICS
alone with my name...

IF JORDAN FLOODS
season of rising...

COMET AND SAINTS
now don't for-...

THE ARGUMENT
A burning house invites the comet in for a meal. The conver-...

FOOL'S DAY
it was my voice...

SIXTEEN LINES
reading a life...

OUT OF RESPECT
Albert Ayler's jukebox...

AGAIN
what the river of sound delivers...

ASHLAND
all I have buried...

4/27/97
the light rain...

untitled
you want me to stay...

I HEAR
your voice...

THE CLASSIC OF STONE
I had some...

JUST WAIT
too hot to eat the late hours...

NEO WHAT
just got through...

7/6/97
the dusk cool breeze...

KNOWN BY WHAT
deceived by everything...

STOLEN
a voice speaks...

WELCOME TRASH HAULERS
our miles of caves where...

TOO HOT
no rain to satisfy...

THEFT OF LINES FROM THE GNOSTICS AND KAUFMAN
one of rock, one of slime,...

COME ON
in your hand...

GUIDE FROM THE PERPLEXED
this is to let you know...

PRAYER THAT FELL THROUGH MY HANDS
did I understand what I said...

GOOF OFF
it was the ordinary hour...

PRACTICES
juxtaposed thoughts from separate days...

OUR DAYS
my brother in the tree...

PROSE POEM ON THE BAKERS (NO COMMAS)

I always see the bakers when I am in a hurry walking past the door
on the alley where they take their break. In any reasonably toler-
able weather they sit outside the door on crates or squatting on
their heels. Many of them smoke during their break because they
can't do that inside. I don't think they talk a lot and they sel-
dom make eye contact with people like me walking past. For some
reason this makes me more aware of my stride and I can feel it in
a way that makes me grateful to the bakers. They work in a yuppie
place that is chaotic and expensive (a microcosm of our late twen-
tieth century world) where the customers always seem intent on
their transactions rather than on any personal grief or joy. I
join this atmosphere with enthusiasm since this is now our way of
having a common experience. Experiencing something in common with
other citizens is sacred or at least has always been thought so.
The bakers in their white t shirts white aprons and small white
caps seem to be (or I would like to see them as) messengers from
another realm of existence whose message is simply their presence
in our world. Hence their silence. As I walk past them silently
my legs in their regular pace say to me "I get the message I get
the message I get the message."


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