Jon Link

 



Cedilla in a Quiet Room After Visiting Latuna

 

Apparent of all the greeks in rivers of stabbed arrows. Like all day dying in unremembered dreams of the garden which speaks in short stabbed ribs. Return with speaks like feeling all day and whispering for a very long time to not become art in near lances which are requested in evening tranquils— avoid this as certain prosperities. Arrowhead of mothers' fixed on the collarbone apparently rivers flexing from the high breath of garden daughters (they still kill in Latuna). Remember the breathing sequences clear as shore birds burning in the rain, die pretending sandpipers will be a way to stab art in whispers. There is no way to be positive of day until touched by its protrusions with miniature happiness sending its ribs from the garden. All the garden touches becomes small and stabs with smuggled yearning. There are still helpless rivers, it is their structure which should appeal to lanced long forgotten. With air it is the please of remember in that arrowed garden, for protrusions with sandpipers hanging from daughter's beautiful collarbone project light as if seen through shades of memory.

 

 

 


Buffet, How Many Oracles

 

No, I am hollow for three weeks and there is no way to reconsider the gaspy vaulters. Drum drum dunk the deutschmark sentinel heart chasers— these fictions of you I am so sorry to mimic the sign I say in your window dressing, but that is not at all how my hands were wrestled away from me. What have you lent me this year? Huzzah the paperbites, huzzah, this is how January first escaped from me and I was a new kind of monster that could not shiver when bitten. I am only in your zoo through brightened pointillism. You are a highness that scolds pewter ghostings from where no looks weren't killed. If first reminded of happiness I was attached to pinups, and these ordeals with gales that accost weariness sought a gleemontage, but I am happy only for a few minutes of each barometric (see it see told see you). Thistle backed the favorite women of my golden ticonderoga will abandon the press board, fill my cup and fix the long living hardee-har that does nothing but spin in my ear. Oh I heard that in monotones, sleeper, ordaining pale regalia. Timid is the wood that is much softer than pine— become at least sootbang become at least, or with very, and much, at last.

 

 

 


Ghosting. A Life of Calling

 

Examine the putrid beauty with lemon fingertips if you want to be taken serious. Castles are normal only in cardiovascular undulations of how a playboy laid a torso of his in revision wheat fields. God is not a lover of half-hunched trees or catalytic conversions, take that to your platinum grave like tall heroes have. It is a mission to arrange parallel oblivions, and they will never collide until touched, gently. Rumors of Carolina Blue Birds dead on the lawn. Revise again. What wouldn't be done to change our heroes provisions, nothing accepted the tassels that perched from the continent, nothing gave high-fives in the courtyard dreams. But this was the final possibility that you have been owned without.

 

 

 


No Virginia

 

it's impossible to see the look of a sad fire marshal or hear the dry voices that break the hinges off their arms. and it is so hard to look at the mashing of troubled popes when virginia is rung in the neck of a new exile from good intention. the most silent waiting takes years off of memory, the people you love can write and write but sometimes it doesn't help—even then a retrospective lighting will break through the windows, every vista replaced with a fabric that, unlike a neighbor, does nothing to comfort or replace anguish. the juniper by the doorway, the animals that concede a growing dilemma, they are all a means of pretending directions with a blunt compass. soon and late there will be a dozen new pretenses for seeing how to mend the grope of a door, how to leave the sight of a helplessness and say that warm does not mean proper. the name of a bleached scenery, these old memories gallop like a stringing donkey, and even the trombone section can still remember the tremor that spoke without needing a single translation.