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The Spoon


Spoon fed sweet comfort

In our mouths can make us doze

Which feels so nice


Like lying on pillows in a limo 

Being driven, in our softest dreams,

Along a gorgeous path


To a bed where a smile and soothing words  

Cross any missing meaning

Behind our backs.



故事,你跑到哪里去啊? 你为什么离开了我? 我是否虐待了你?破坏你的情节的逻辑呢? 不走向你必然的结论? 还是你以为我对你不忠,跟其它的故事发生关系?我到底是犯了什么罪?


现在我只是一个单独的字在一本空白的书。。。每天我没事做, 我只能从第一页跑到第二百页, 连一个卑贱的标点符号都没有。。


我跟你说,你不是世界上唯一个故事! 我会当汉姆雷特!我会当李尔王!我会当奥赛罗!不要怀疑我——我真会!



Crazy Grandma Rising

Crazy grandma says her planet’s closed,

And shut the door behind you.  


She is past being calmed  


By doctors music nurses children 

That will sit with her and read with her, 

Sounding out the words she slurs


And those she has forgotten.  


They are past her or she is past them

Past Citalopram and Olanzapine 

Past toothbrushing and toileting

These meals this home this shit.  This calming music


Before death so she storms out bird     


ice like 


Hop flap 

Flying through the winter breeze 

Over a bridge


Into a café,

Where she sits, shivers, and inhales, 

Smiling gently though the shelter of her shut eyes.  


Then she lets her vision fly out 

And watches it flapping away

As she blinks, 

Clawing with her eyes at the world.

Let's Have A Feeling



Angry just refuses to be angry.

I’m finally happy, angry says, 

Now I know that one must accept oneself.


But you’re not accepting yourself,

Acceptance says, you’re becoming me,

Which is making me become angry.


And of course happy is not happy –

You’re not me either! she yells,

I’ve never been angry! I’m happy! 



There are no real solids and Buckminister Fuller

Explained that love is a kind of metaphysical gravity

So, as love begins, being swells and surges,

Like when you emerged from foam onto silica,

And I emitted an oscillation through space time,

Along with a transfer of energy, and you waved back.






在第一个轮回里我当个胡萝卜,享受肥沃的泥土,跟附近的西红柿说一点闲话。其实,很多人喜欢欣赏植物的生活方式。比如当个高尚的黄瓜,狡诈的蘑菇,或者一个诚实的西兰花- 这真是一种狂喜。




Soft off waves’ frisks and spurts

The wind soothes susurrant leaves

And clogs clap rhythm across macadam.


The tide tells time:

Surge, cusp and backwash, 

Exhaustion and erosion, absence.


And footprints, back and forth across the sand.

And joyous shouts.

We collect the shells.


In A World without Agents        


            Everyone wants to understand art.  

            Why not try to understand the song of a bird?

                                          Pablo Picasso


No glib, civil slab of muscle and guile,

Sipping a whiskey, smiling at lies 

In suspect mouths and eyes, would go so far undercover

As to suddenly cease to be.   


Nor would birth become yet another break,

In life, a mechanical game of billiards,

A meaningless matter of force and chance.

Perhaps nothing in the world would change.          


Trucks and tanks would roll into cities 

As coccoid methanogens in ruminant guts attack grass;

Saturn would pass through its aphelion

As a boy dons goggles to dip into a pool.


As a pupa turns imago and slowly grows wings

A film about the stock market comes out.

A painter uses acrylic to make stars melt 

And some species will sing while flying.

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