Not much space to write. Not much
Ducks   shot at  on a  rowboat, solid ice
Tee shirt: “Don’t worry / Do slappies” (Red on black)
two or three boys standing by the side of the road
battery left on the phone. So you can
This nowhere has to go             Rather I drift off
  Lots of people here look like Steve Evans
or walking, heads down, listening to a song
see the list I may show my son in
the dial                       An end in sight
or maybe it is all one person appearing in
they murmur without meaning to, unconsciously
the morning and you can see the
                  And there’s another! A rowboat
   various places here.
              No one can join them
characteristics according to the
slides across my field of vision
                      I start reading the book
No one can separate them            from this landscape
book I was shown at the Rock &
     Absence of mate: the heart gropes for foundation
         after sandwich & OJ, unable to stay
color and noise                       It seems the planet
Art Shop on the colossal night (so
The boat founders on shoals found way out at sea
       seated because so badly
Earth is everywhere          leaves in all directions
that way like tonight) of Henry’s
                                No cheap tricks   please
                needing to urinate but thinking I

reading doublebilling as a Soul-
         a mind surrounded by rubber bands
can’t go into a museum building to a restroom
               Scattered like autumn at the seashore
Benders show night . . .  where was I? At
scoundrels and sycophants                       you and me
     with my milkshake. I read walking, then                                                                     
wet thickening in decay                 no matter
the Venice Ale House. On the street,
our  eyes  tied  together with nots strangling identities
       see a set of symbols on the side of this
     Only very temporarily is  mass mass
the beach. Up the alley, like a
but all the same we are glad to be home
          building, where I’d thought was a staff
A sense of temporality   like   layered  gunk
sexual experience – the loving
         where the categories don’t matter anymore
            entrance. Warned the floor is often

tones; mouths, anuses, vaginas,
all identities becoming elastic and simultaneous
           wet by two signs there, I find a urinal
murky with portent.  Our nation informally
not yours, not mine, all of ours,
since we eat out of the same bucket
    and allow a large vocable to join in my sigh
declares total war on an ersatz excuse
for all hours      Possible to be
          Ghostly children, also ourselves, climb in the trees
            as I release pressure from my bladder.
for  a  would-be  state,  itself  more  powerful
maturely loving in childlike
fall to the ground disguised as leaves, apples, snow
        No one is around to hear it. I enjoy
in its magnetism and lethality than drugs
omnipotence, sentimental or
           Words make  me  dizzy.   I love
                       hearing it. I do not try to repeat.
or entertainments we could throw at it
sensimotorically striding forward
the apprehension before things change
          The “unthought known”

to nameless burrito house to follow
and  not  for   sale.    It’s no one’s property
       shows up in the clip
     to one side a row of sunflowers, bordered
porter with horchata & burrito al pastor.
          neither female nor male                  to die for
from The Testament of Dr. Mabuse, shown here
by grasses growing taller daily, maybe alfalfa
Delivered, to my writing desk . . .
a mission greater than one’s understanding
in the German expressionist cinema show

“Here” (not “to go”) Como lavarse las manos
sneakers on the wires                              boxers on
in the “Art of the Americas Building.”

[02 19 – 04 28 2015]

 STEVE BENSON             04  28  15 

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