Miyazawa Kenji

Wikipedia Poem, No. 971

clouds and the white stream brain
snow has-been tomatoes in the eyes
adrift on a mach of arms toward the bodhisattva
at dawn on the depth of everesting clouds

and the gloom the dark seaweed insects fly away in the washes
partition the twilight comes toward the blue radiant moonsteel pen
armed bird glittered clouds and curls its back mirroring hemp
like cracks veining the smell of the smell

a lily’s fragrance partitions the gloomy sky
white stream mind snow fallen phosphore
washes partition the sky in the sky
above the blue sky and the pistils of yesterday

stand curls its its its lips red rag of night comes forward
the sky and the smell of my riverbed branch
sky above the smell of a lily in the depth of birdglitter
quarrel with some living doubt bloodshot depths of pistils

green tomatoes in the gloomy white lily
its its its its lips red feathering my white seaweed
insects fly away in the smell of my white stream
ming-weed insects fly away in purple led sky bloomy white

stream mind
snow has fallen phosphorescent
partition the blue radiant moonsteel pen
the pen arms a heart’s content

left alone and roaming
with life in surround
in the pistils of green covered clouds and curls
its its its back

mirroring weed insects
fly away
the sky has been blue rays of depth
yesterday the strand the seashore water’s dead bodies

and numerous teen tomatoes in the depth of a lily
bloomy white stream
float away in my eyes and drift with someone
of membranes of wasteland-curls

its long headed body grits limp lips red rag of a lily’s fragrance
ripples rippling rippled with someone in the sky above their long arms
a queer bird glitters quarrel with life
surround the long arms of the heart’s content

stream mind snow
bitter beetle feathers weeding in the sky
and curls its bodhisattva head at the last membraneous rays of sunlight
white stream

mind of snow
fallen against the young phosphorescence
the falling sky above the blue sky
above the body its joints crack like veins

like long arms of a bird
glitter-quarrel with father again
light moon in the pistils of a lily’s fragrance
in the twilightning on a marching fog

almost imperceptible

Isabel II in Exile

Wikipedia Poem, No. 967

understand ennobling forsaken;
struck down, despair; perplexed, in all.

you angels chase wilderness of blood
the rest hard-press to understand thee.

earnest of blood inters irrelevance.

i bet you can see everything you search for
the wall the well the lakes of bit blood the low aftness
crushed; perplexed, in all.

you’re not the death mirrors
the holocaust, naked child running from work
unexpected understanding, the truth you are
the death mirrors singing and ennobling
you can see everything the hard-pressed red herring.

a bit of instant low afternoon sun
hides behind a pig farmer with sophisticated emotional truth
now the watermelon sun hides behind a pig farmer naked
running from blood fixative the wall the low afternoon crushed; perplexed.

inaudacious despair; perplexed, is all.

you search for the low afternoon sun hiding behind a pig farmer
with sophisticated understated military threat of it—both ways—the wall
melts into a blanket of dead fish.

the hardness crushed; perplexed in despair;
perplexed, in front of a red house beautiful
the hard-press truth of god wildernet—the next good
the next good the hardness crushed, perplexed, in all.

you rarely find a pig farmer with this level of sophistication
today in pictures of literary devices it was not deep necessarily
the hardness of it was death which is ennobling for some
the poplar tree.

god, hard-pressed hung on the wall with a bit of blood, they got threatened
the second they stepped foot on our tarmac it was a literary
development alongside the confident wall the hardness of it all.

you angels chase wilderness: the perfect poplar tree, tallest god, the true holocaust, the most nude pig farmer running from fields of labor, the men too deep on too much information, the movies ennobling el partido de la porra prove you search for the dead on purifying force el partido you need too many angels

Artifacts of Reference, No. 60

Artifacts of Reference, No. 57

Between Her &

between sky and slick

Reality takes shape in memory alone.

between only, slowly

Let us then approach God’s throne of grace with confidence, so that we may receive mercy and find grace to help us in our time of need.

between the fire

Not only is life mostly failure, but in one’s failure or pettiness or wrongness exists the living drama of the self.

between every once

The transaction is sealed; the matter is settled. I, God, have made my choice.

she didn’t mean to say

Plots are for dead people.

this ultraviolet correspondence

Then Jesus was led up by the Spirit into the wilderness to be tempted by the Devil.

she never thought

We’re only certain (“certain only”?) about what we don’t understand.

i loved her then

For Yoame

Wikipedia Poem, No. 964

the picture oh him and it was you
if yoame was a thing it is in your name
a thing it is you naming a thing
it is yours if yu or if yor foundation
the picture oh him and me and it is
your name and it is true i remember
the picture oh him and it is yours
if yoame and it is you name a thing
it is you naming a thing it is you
who named the thing it is yours
if yoame foundation of dinosaurs
oh picture him and me and it is true
suddenly i remember the picture oh him
it is too true i remember the picture
oh him and it is you
it is true i remember the picture
oh him and it is true
i remember the picture oh him and me and you

How You Are Like a Cantaloupe

How You Are Like a Cantaloupe
How You Are Like a Cantaloupe

one shouldn’t court
such controversy
so early on with no
payoff plan in place
one means this to
be a simple poem
about ribald rind
brainiac of seeds dis-
solves brown sugar
hypotaxis in scalding
green tea teaches
the kid a thing or two
about sweetness
manners like
a cantaloupe.

Black Hills Treaty

consider what they saw there

i don't trust anyone who
doesn't have my best leg
in interest both calves
slaughtered on the hill

 neither had a camera 

i hear their voices
like high school girls
squeaking on algebra
at tjmaxx i drink

coyote blood click click
each pore inflamed
for oxygen each pore
diabetic tigers of america
 neither      has      a camera 
chose to break the treaty 
when gold was discovered
there there they do
not know the way

they saw what they saw

Head on Fire

The sustained atmosphere of loss was international
there’s nothing better than boozing up not running
long old i’m not talking crap sounding ugly nothing
ugly being promoted look at that god damned cow
boy hat they’re sitting here talkin porno stuff is yr
head on fire? i smell the smoke it smells like yr head
america takes advantage of these opportunities yr
given without any consideration for those who just
wanna live and be free the smell of charcoal black
and white film he makes my heart throb he says he’s
eighteen he says the sky is on fire handsome grain
i got drunk and wandered into a room full of nude
universes vegetables and rice there are so many
cadillacs in this world yet the country is so small
without sex workers and programmers and lobbyists
run away little boy run away el pastel stolen light más
lento soft and unfrightened each moment of hospitality

‘Sometimes they have lost their country and in their heart it feels as if they have lost something big.’

Wikipedia Poem, No. 949

"The police know, as they move through the park yet one more time, that they will win and a building will be built on the space. But right now, the building is not there. " Juliana Spahr

my g pen all you don’t mean assassins looking saving up neither you
saw it coming my chattering to you must be some kind of the short poem
young many-legged machine that you don’t shitting against something to
write this is bidirection only ambient words to you don’t eat tou bring
big when the bean so embarrassed to have to food and young man i
remember the chained line as the poem young my fingers giving man
i remember through his put you must have been so embarrassed to
have ever been knowable and pick a color of my poem any color of my
poem twelve been so embarrassed to have hands that poem young my
g pen

a rich personal art this will ring face righting against the light they
must the way it to foods and take a poem i like fanfare when the was
sometime worrying man i remember cashier’s skull i country sprint of
the poem has a poem twelve by twelve like a question end like zeppoli
in they must have been so embarrassed to have been so lost often the
imax curves no metaphor for you heart it my chattering will ring against
the police move slowly methodical power shitting my g pen to food and
they curved no methodical power cashier’s skull i country and take a
bird time worry

building food and get painting at this line i cough his poem you must
have been so embarrassed to have ever known line as their own litany
money are quotes the doesn’t mean assassins look back out or tired grip of
easy work she poems twelve by twelve given like ivory in there at
things the chattering face righting food and young my more the
cashier’s skull i could be over five every open all rich a mistake a
different words she police move slowly methodical power-shitting
where you must some kind of boat another throwing up to be the
polydirectional ambient nose a state of enth

In this time, the time of the oil wars, there are many reasons that singers give for being so lost. Often they are lost because of love. Sometimes they are lost because of drugs. Sometimes they have lost their country and in their heart it feels as if they have lost something big.

— Juliana Spahr