Call Friday

more. more she says. more. hear the word leave her room and echo down her hall, dropping long feathers as they go - see all these feathers litter the hall; walk her hall and hear as they crunch, barbs and shafts beneath your feet. peacock feathers meters high, tides of eyes and rachis, hissing a brackish odor, rising and permeating her call - more, more. all this a crow tells me: says all crows are peacocks as all were peacocks once: versed in the peacock rules of display; au fait with the peacock codes of etiquette and preening. but she only wanted more, no matter what she got. just more. took all we had, our size, our song, our beautiful feathers too, to line her empty halls: see me now, these black feather stumps, this neck

Numberlessly Thursday

walks pages to find what's to be said. walks lines to find words, and this line to find words. walks, step-by-fingers-step, to raise words that say what's to be said. maybe past-words that lean away, lined by weight and shadow; maybe future-words, that lean away, lined by light; or present words standing vertical. all numberlessly walking line, sentenced to raise a what's said, up-from lines of wording stitched to a page: that white of white becoming sheet of marked aquiesce. from where walking becomes talking becoming speech, a says what's to be said, becomes calling for reply

Wednesday a-go

a trade of winds

a carry of cards 

a breeze you can see

this house 
a was

Tuesday was-Monday

writing to fill the gaps the day leaves at its end, here with 
the midnight ticking in. putting word to word to create a 
memory, to fill each gap, huddling around me now as 
sullen air. in order to forget: made-up memories for 
forgetting, made of greyest forget. like, I forget, for example. 
or, I forgot. and, I forget that I should remember. and
I do remember

Monday Whisperer

no more. no - not any more, I don't want to anymore; I don't want to talk anymore. not for that reason; not for that reason either. I don't want to talk. no, I don't want to - listen; listen: when I talk, only hints come. or only suggestions and bits of what should be said. only an edge of the thing that's to be said. only corners of what is there to be said come out. and often they come out top-to-bottom; often, upside-down, wrong-colored too. when I talk, she whispers, only the world exists

Sunday There's

my hands. I see them. I'm even able to hear them, as I watch my fingers rub along this edge. I see what they can do, bringing feelings of the world into me; sending mine out into it. but I can't stop them trembling. I hold the world and hold its edge, but my grip is soon released. it's not a tremble from the world I'm passing on, it's trembling from elsewhere, somewhere. I can close my eyes to find it. I can maintain silence to hear its source. but I can't find it.... can you see it? can you measure it, name it, point to where it comes from? hold onto my hands?

Saturday's Isle

this is what is written before, and this is what is written when, there's nothing to write. and this is what to write after there's nothing to write. well what would you write when there's nothing to write? would you? would you write? would you write you? you would? would you? or like me would you write this, or that which I just wrote? and then perhaps as this nothing of ours spreads, becomes the clicks of our fingers cross our keyboard, you'll write something like what