Joshua Harmon



I'm not fixin' to get rowdy, venture
off-radar, fuck with open source code: spring

hills of squills, the rarefied checkout line,
the tiny guest bedroom still undusted

since winter: we've formed our truces today.
The technological wonders beetle

away from words: real refinement (I can't
follow) urges a pass, and what, I ask,

does anyone want? Discovery creeps
wormwardly along a mathematics

of mingling my mother warned me about—
anyway, in the beautiful valley

my haloed seeing rues transparency,
shoos such likelihood aft, away: I yawn,

yearn, perceiving only how vertigo
secretaries me into the office.



I traffic in the elided spaces
inside my head, the ineluctable
tangent, the staid dust-bunnies of belief:

I count on the one thing I can't count on,
and oh I admire the anecdotal
country, a packed luggage of inertia

offering the bed's critique of resolve
and difficulties. I'm only looking
for some average fun. Once I took care

of taking care, I had little left to
worry over, but my sense of relief
emerged mostly from being overlooked,

okay? Such chronic scraps wangle, shimmy:
an endless F.A.Q. I skimmed, at best.


"An inspected geography leans in with the landscape's repetitions," writes Bob Perelman in a.k.a., and I'm inclined to agree.