Jared Schickling and John Bloomberg-Rissman

Your Transcript / primate 8.3 (cont'd)

12/22/08 2:52 AM

e.g. / this maybe / what i mean[ S……!! ]

understand from obfuscated clarity lament, was praise

a television makes a lot of sense near my love

unmeasured by wars, but measured w/ one, we live in a cyclone house

evidently far away, near musicy noise, that comes in

behind walls piping helping to color the rims of eyes here and showers

when day breaks was it the town

that that night would speak

w/ frictions to chirp to certain

lees who gave of themselves, as their own opposite names near such inward works

within some starlit street, such autumn near lamplit rooms near a stall somewhere

(name-caught light completions

took the form of death) yanking

that way

this way            that would never ever push and even if it were, partly, turned

interactive the friend it’d work for whose unbeknownst

co-editor would write

poem should move “as a stone skips across

waters no no we will not

never met this person, never took such care to


such information as is slung w/ one lifetime

which will itself relinquish all it chooses so one can live here just as easy

when its skins sink, gives up the water

poems itself, like a big big desert

gives of itself absorbing like suns it feels and yet

“will not experience mortality” [ ALL BUT ONE EDITOR

i collaborates yes

i breathes         the wave

skipped its stone, fell in its rising, this “necessary” week, some told told [ MAIL ]

said this shan’t come again til next year. sounds like next year already. sounds

like a form

again [ A LIGHT ] that may depend on me, and not really, only actually, “post a comment”

a gain a [ LIGHT ] generous imposition who shouldn’t return most of the request and,


who shouldn’t seam in their elsewhere, near a blogosphere, where we’re being treated to

“7 Days 7 Odes” near some others “one week of mourning”

“post a comment” whose near heroic one more

near what more troops did do, faraway

near whomever wants to jump in

in my error, w/ mollie, who says the realization of beauty

whose song’s the silence

of silencing


noise           of note abstracted

from beauty’s natural beginning

of terror         the i still

my self am                digits near my own myth praising


“small as a growth” discarding

compounded blue blankee whose replacements

no transpositions

for earthen glances

down                aloft

to bear “my” skins thinking

“the pain & pleasure of not exiting / experience something other than complicity”

key word was “to,” anyway

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