We call it love when we go together.

Call it declensions of gravity when alone we go down the green drift. Continuous pinnacles of waves moving into or away from the perpetual ocean of the present. Round rooftops bend and break the architecture of wind.   |   Shoreline delineates disarray. The path back dissolves. Understand that we’re unblindfolding here, alone in our unparticulars.  The path back laugh-cries, in lucid hallucination.   |   [Gotta get me a zombie sombrero!] This is not an attempt at serenity / This is a reckless stirring of soup / A soundtrack delineated by inflection / Part the louvers to engage   |   I fall constantly asleep in the weeds. What is simple is okay. I left my body in perfect isolation. My tired imagination sings in the gullies.   |   [Acrostic] Presbyterians pass a brackish reefer across their pedagogic distance. / Open to the incubus, yet fearful of the succubus, they find equilibrium. / Endless dahlias despise the continuous disorder, despite all efforts.  / Maxims of overlap thrum in a trance of obscured meaninglessness.  |   When the clattering abruptly ends / a measly interrupter yawns an avalanche / full of tombstones who crash and cinch, twining / behind a low, powered sky.   |   The gash has questions. It spies legs without ears. Ashy bites are everywhere. There are prescriptions for a yawn.   |   There are animals inside we must extrapolate. Smother these things: hands, hearts, mouths, until quivering. You and I can brew better things if we cross these borders. Paddle boats may be our best vessel.   |   The book’s reverse was dressed in accidents. Ted was there, a chair upside down in the middle of the room and no one saying a thing about it. Ted wasn’t there. An accident between effect and affect. The thing about it: the same thing.   |   More exactly not-you at the difficult table we powder up. A pattern, feels tugged, foam bits a sex building in Brussels. The sow tugged with white hands, and of Walt Whitman a monkey-dummy, a barbecue party. Brazen, and where are yous?  |   They'll stampede across your speech and metastasize like a monsoon. Like hailstones on your tongue they'll stab an icicle through your lover. They'll be the postindustrial bunnies that leave little thumbprints on your heart. They'll take you on a loop da loop, they'll pound you with an exquisite hammer.   |   If you stand very static and mute, you can see that they are all talking about their mothers. Drudges at the hands of the astronauts that ice-chop men and soil, they keep a coffer of embellished patterns that holds a nest of abrasions and muses that grind about, orderly. We are sad that there are no birds. Brackish birds that hoop about the muddy lake.   |   Boot-boot the temporal crush, the history kick. / Inevitability stammers the thrumming swallow. / Speared through disordered, sieved bloodletting. / The blank, breath-gasp of birds salts the sea. / Noon day is the no one day unknown.  |   This year I spent more time than ever in my head’s grazing portals. Even as the living machine clearly grabbed at my chest. I knew I was accruing an immense debt. The end result: Unparticular.


Authors of this collaborative lyric essay: Sharon Cebula, Michael Goroff, Genevieve Jencson, Meg Johnson, Mike Krutel, Britny Kutuchief, Dave Materna, Claire Robinson May, Krysia Orlowski, Katrina Pelow, Mirissa Rini, Sam Snodgrass, Nick Sturm, Elizabeth Tussey

Material handling & curation: Mary Biddinger