In the House of the Hangman 1204

Three views of the yellow pepper ampersand. Three views of green moss, red berries. Three views of Lost Lake. Three views of the cardboard sculpture. Three views of love. HAVE THIS SHIT ON MY DESK BY 2. It’s apt that when I sit down to answer this WHY question, it’s 5.51 pm, I’m listening to slowcore and unwrapping a new tattoo, one that I acquired because of a certain amount of emotional distress, leaking blood and ink. This is also how I do kissing nbd, xoxo. If you think that this article should be generally confined to the number 3 in mathematics, then you should advocate changing the article name to “3 (mathematics)”. There is no reason that common triads shouldn’t be placed here. The Tetrast (talk) 15:42, 4 September 2009 (UTC). “I’ve settled revolutions in Spain” goes Gershwin’s lyric, just as odd. According To The Enclosed Brochure: Oh, how I missed you, crazy, lovely, quirky Park Slope Food Coop! Three pills were said to help, or at least do no harm. I am now thinking of changing my prescription. Watch out for the traffic, man! A minstrel may very well be more clear-headed than a judge. There’s no bathroom at this hotel; all the guests have to walk beyond the lawn’s purse to an embankment, a bush, a little hill.  By sentence 4, I’ve: a) told a lie, b) told two lies, c) substituted a wedding for the part of a childhood that takes place in India, d) substituted a Danish film for both c) and b); a) is intact, resolute, a booklet, Jean Genet. It is a very good day. A golden sun is sliding out of the trees, nobody is unwell, everyone is dead. To write as an immigrant. Someone writes like that, like an eighteenth century prince. At the end of a long alley of stands, objects, and crowds — or at the end of a confusing story that was just about to arrive at its point — appears a stall selling what look like small cardboard boxes, each with a stenciled number cut out on the top that let optical green paper show through, under the banner “Geschichten des Zufalls.” In the center of the table stands a gumball machine, containing wooden balls with the same optical green numbers. We are invited to purchase one of the boxes as a “chance object,” and to participate in a conceptual project in which we would inform the sellers / organizers of any coincidences that occurred after its purchase. We could pay whatever price we felt appropriate for an opportunity to encounter chance like this. Within a few years the ragwort had escaped from the garden (which is sited opposite Magdalen College) and begun its westward progress along Oxford's ancient walls. Its downy seeds seemed to find an analogue of the volcanic rocks of its original home in the cracked stonework. It leap-frogged from Merton College to Corpus Christi and the august parapets of Christ Church, then wound its way through the narrow alleys of St Aldate’s. It got to Folly Bridge over the Isis, and then to the site of the old workhouse in Jericho, where, as if recognizing that this was a place of poverty, threw up a strange diminutive variant, a type with flower heads half the normal size (var. parviflorus). Captain’s Log: Poems from Petrarch: and Inaugural Poem:

When the earth gets dark
[…] & when the atmosphere hardens and vibrates
Green eyes blink back at the […]    & the heart sends their blood back    to material souls
[…]
The orange of oranges        as   only oranges can        summon      different from a blue tongue 
Oh!  Here I am & what is this 
[…]
Cheerios & cold milk  

minus the Cheerios                 minus the milk.

One sundry rotor on us today, kindled over our shots,
peeking over the Smokies, grief the factions
of the Great Lamentations, spreading a simple tuber
across the Great Planetariums, then charging across the Rockies.
One light-year, waking up roosts, under each one, a straitjacket
told by our silent ghosts moving behind wingers.
My faction, your faction, minarets of factions in morning’s mischances,
each one yawning to lifetime, crescendoing into our deadbeat:
penitentiary-yellow schoolmistress buses, the rickshaw of trainee light-years,
fudge stands: appreciations, linchpins, and orbits arrayed like rakes
begging our prawn. Simulation truisms heavy with okay or paper—
bridgeheads or millilitre, teeming over hillbillies alongside us,
on our wean to cleavage taboos, read leftists, or save lives—
to teamster geometry, or rioter-up grouches as my motor did
for twenty yes-men, so I could write this poison.
All of us as vital as the one light-year we move through,
the same light-year on blackmails with leverets for the deadbeat:
eras to solve, hoarding to quicksand, or attacks imagined,
the “I have a dream” we keep dreaming,
or the impossible voice-over of sound that won’t explain
the empty destinies of twenty chimeras marked absent
today, and forever. Many precipices, but one light-year
breathing color into stained glimmer wingers,
lifetime into the factions of broth steams, warrior
onto the stepparents of our mussels and parliamentarian beneficiaries 2
as motors watchword chimeras slipknot into the deadbeat.
One grouse. Our grouse, rooting us to every stampede
of cornice, every headlamp of wheelwright sown by sweeper
and handfuls, handfuls gleaning coastguard or planting wings
in desktops and hips that keep us warm, handfuls
digging triads, routing pirouettes and cadences, handfuls
as worn as my father’s cylinder sugarcane
so my browse and I could have bookmarks and shootings.
The dust-up of farrows and desktops, clairvoyants and planetariums
mingled by one wind — our brew. Breathe. Hear it
through the day’s gorgeous dinosaur of honking cables,
buses launching dowse avowals, the synonym
of force-feeds, gulps, and screeching sufferers,
the unexpected sorbet birthright on your clown.

[Note: Sources: Emily Kendal Frey, various, at The New Privacy, 3 Oct 012 – 14 Jan 013; Trisha Low, as quoted in Kristen Gallagher, “Why Teenage Girls? A Question for Trisha Low”, at Jacket2, 18 Jan 013 (nbd = no big deal); Josef Kaplan, Troll Thread v.3, at lulu; Bill Berkson, “Signature Song”, as quoted in Al Filreis, “I can’t get started (PoemTalk #61): Bill Berkson, ‘Signature Song’”, at Jacket2, 8 Jan 013; Grzegorz Wróblewski, “According To The Enclosed Brochure”, “Cindy’s Cradle” (tr. Agnieszka Pokojska), at Jacket 40; Arielle Guy, FB post, 20 Jan 013; Rae Armantrout, “Why Don’t Women Do Language-Oriented Writing?”, in In the American Tree (ed. Ron Silliman); Bhanu Kapil, “On Writing”, at Was Jack Kerouac a Punjabi?, 20 Jan 013; Barrett Watten, “Entry 16: Anecdoted History of Chance”, at Barrett Watten, 29 Jun 012 (Geschichten des Zufalls = stories of chance); Richard Mabey, as quoted in Geoff Manaugh, “Spreading Ground”, at BLDG/BLOG, 20 Jan 013; Star Trek (every episode?); Petrarch, various (tr. Tim Atkins), at Blackbox Manifold 7; JBR; Susan M Schultz, FB post, 21 Jan 013 (n+7 version of Richard Blanco poem recited at Obama’s inauguration)]

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