few new poems

Secret Followers

Dreaming from other people’s wires
Birds left apart
What was the fragment of that vision?
We spoke of when the frogs sang in perfect harmony
And who was it that would yell into that mic
As if he were feeling it ripped apart from
Versions recorded long ago?

Be-known to none other than we
Were the glorious ones
On that bed a million captions aside
He would break into some room
Screaming that art had shined into the only piece of ground
Between them
An interval,
A chasm.

Swerve

Left out of this are the jesters and the monks
We rolled out big slabs of wood planks
Off of mother nature’s ship
They plummeted down into grooves of reticence.

And who taught that it was possible to slip
Off the road you just haven’t stopped traveling down

You keep going besides the signs that open their way to
Untold high-way’s
Over across the free-way’s ports of carefully placed signage
It would take us far too many uneven grooves where
Was it that night we left it stranded in that field where the
Cows faced death?

The distance
The theory
The operation
All rehearsed

The number of precipices
He’d fallen out straight under to the side of her face

Undo me from your careful little parade
So intricate is our time here that
I am seated with the belt on as we drive over the plains

She is sniffing cold from the patience and courage of sermons forgotten
And did you say it was language that caused all this violence?


Some Distance, Some Scribble

I sweat as I drive my old car into its slot
Its all I can do to propel the energy needed to push the car forward
And unto the eccentric little monkey you’d thought about from time to time
Perfect is a vision you would have
And not just any vision
But the vision would have to be set up from a book of some
Rye drinking poet of the woods
With handle-bar mustache and a sort of panache that brought him into a dandelion field
The very poise we hold over the laptop (spelled properly) is not even a stream,
The stream is a fake
This is the flow of words that come with the pen of
An age that has brought you the image
Of information packed into bits where meaningless numbers repeat
The loop of hundreds of infinitesimal pieces holds you up to a fence where you’d think about the state of this art form.

This state of perforated fences,
the neighbor is haunting you over the way
His face makes you into fragile roses
Yellow and green
The colors aren’t primary
Beyond, under, away, today, later, this is the afternoon
Piece me unto the little closet

This may not work out
And you should be beholden to no one unless the neighbor is protected

We were the amazing graces
And this is the night when the magic comes
Only once have I kept that flow of conversation hidden from what I am capable of
You wouldn’t have it
This is the percolating time for thunders magic to work
And so much love I could guess her
I knew who she was
And it was ok

Pale surgeons open bodies over Wagner

Never mistake motion for action
This place, this spot, this time, this location is where you’d find me

Places left abandon
Long haze of morning light had rushed into the nearest memory
Tiny cells burst over the thought of that memory because it would heroically
Jerk the flag from his navel
And surrender to the time it was meant for excellence and shame
The mixture he’d come to know so well vicariously was the shame
And directly was the excellence that it would perspire from this collage of
Broken links
Coiled up-right scribbling of the mind
clear it.

These ears are made for abuse
But these eyes can’t take it
You said we’d ascend that mountain and
Like the older you, we’d dig that tunnel down into that place where the statues of our youth shone through your idols

Of Beverly Hills foisted unto some stage in an ethereal lite
Mood would have them lounged out over couches in apartments that lacked fireplaces in the winter
We’d warm our cheer with a guitar melody and
A lot of praise for our former self
Huddled in some spacious living room.

– Daniel Tutt, October 10, 2010

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