w b k e c k l e r |
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FERNLIKE
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Beyond the reach of an opponent
there are no trees worth associating.
The cat sat below regret
in one version of the path
where our lovers do not return singing.
A leaflike government
of a dream,
or a succour.
Noise is striking
persistently. As no other
nears.
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SLICE THAT MEANS EYE |
As a Hokkaido crane
tourists are screaming
stamping the light
crone’s star-foot
angrily
We yield to patois the skeleton
When it begins to snow on Max Jacob’s house
We dye the breathing-hole,
we mutter indigo
into a rubbed climax,
rue once called Paris.
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INFLAMED NOVEL |
I was interrupted.
A loan by the company:
the wrong object,
wrong vehicle,
wrong century.
Posing as a samurai
lasted several incarnations.
But was really a sparrow.
I was intimidated.
I loved.
The karma came back
“honeymoon vulgar.”
I moved to television.
Things got better.
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I WANTED YOU TO KNOW... |
Nature only made meaning up
like the cacchination of kookaburras
or the piety of divorce attorneys.
Still lurks glasnost,
that awful road home
into pliable chiaroscuro.
The bat-wing dumbness
of early lovers.
Like the muscles of fishes,
some paintings,
some rains,
you can never sack.
Some days you can never thank
Stein the quarterback
enough.
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TODAY... |
An insect makes it through
its millionth century
without a celebration.
But I need heaven to notice
the tiny Valhalla
of my spirit’s grocery list
this afternoon
I left by the toilet
as I went wandering off
to steal butter
from Shakespeare
and his prissy
immortal zoo.
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W.B. KECKLER's books include Sanskrit of the Body (Viking Penguin) and the recently published translation of two early Malraux works, The Kingdom of Farfelu (Fugue State Press). He loves the Cocteau Twins and thrift stores. |