WEBVTT

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And as Morgan mentioned, that
I spent many years working

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on the papers of Jack Spicer,
whose work I've helped to put

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together into collections.

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So this was written
last summer, as I

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was trying to finish that up.

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"Now the Things That Are for
Jack are Coming to an End".

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Everything's--
[CLEARS THROAT] Jesus.

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Everything's the
same just faster.

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An unusual amount of fracture,
office worker, and eclipse.

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Time wigging into
amperes about me.

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An unusual color starched and
pulled taut over the skin.

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The genetic text has become
real touching me, touching down.

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Are we not born of inequity,
property, loot, grandeur,

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flinty grammar?

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Are we not bread-like,
soft tissue, heat-seeking,

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and fragile?

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In a room of heady
effort tomorrow is indeed

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a fabulous sail billowing.

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Any porous room billowing
may be feathered and lined

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with French verse cobbled
from the vender's brute cries.

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Not a jeering mass at
mardi gras but telepathy.

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The joker skull of
yesteryear has opened a door,

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fortress dust, human dust.

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Tranquil snow-globe dust
blanketing evenly, softly.

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And now that the things for
jack are coming to an end.

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I'm a nursery run
away from naptime.

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To be out here on the other
side, John, you're dead

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but the water grasses
waving, deep under.

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Now to brighten the
mood, some of you

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people are missing winter,
this is a recent love poem.