Bury me in a cocoa pod, it’s time. Bury me in a Mercedes Benz, a silver one, I’ve met my end. Bury me in a lobster shell, a carapace of red, now I’m dead.

The order of islands here If you take it will I give it back at two o’clock Will you hold it

Those who have lived here since be… time are gone while the ones who m… replace them have not yet arrived. The streets are wet with a recent rain yet you continue to count

I returned a book to John Ashbery last week. It was 1” x 1” x 1”, a perfect cube. “Gee, Michael, you’ve had that book for twelve years. What took you so long?” “It was surprisingly dens...

The clock is a fiction, dear Sist… yet we live within it, Sister, its arms are ours, and the fiction is as real as a rose in the steel dust

O you in that little bark What is the relation of the painti… The painting bears no relation to… The tiny boat bears nameless people across

Here, Sister, it can be said that good-by means hello, day night, far near, here where the rivers run uphill and the clouds lie still

Now I see them sitting me before… There’s noise and laughter. Someb… mentions that hearing is silver before we move on to Table One with the random numbers. I look do…

Our bodies, Sister, such as they are, almost touch but transparent as they are we pass through one another as if on the way

“I said darkling and you said spar… The play-house appears before us as a real house in the dark filled with people cut out of magazines and postcards

Beneath the writing on the wall is the writing it was designed to obscure. The two together form a third kind There is no writing

From the Mercury Fountain, Mahmo… spills a stream echo of things sun to stone speaking cicada to poppy

Sister, is it not time for us to learn to speak now that the infernal machines have captured the breathing word? Now that drones fill the sky

This can be seen as placing a mirr… The mountain is where we live, a c… of unequal sides the days no sun a… This is life in the square inch fi… a September particle, biochip, or…

They tell each other stories, lies composed as dreams and always in the colors of dreams: rust, chrome yellow, coral… chemical green. Of the dying