Two poems for tomorrow

What the Day Feels

pay for where you watch, say, sit
hellsabumbpin, with choir hats on
into a where is why;
lip synck to whatever, still means a major life
into the generally singular:
pay & unpay past where my smiles deregulate

when this is a fever
honed down things get real
absolute in cafe slur tambala bang
lip saves against those dayhills
even this is a kind of seeing, saying:
nonsense gets up, opens door

In Puddles of Lux: tracing paper

at that one time, i sensed apologize
really didn’t want to go melting
times being here times ten;
how do you look into music
under the wreath-line going bemused,
rash with woundless,

ranking how voices close in, misusing
implied youth, wide spatiotemporal snuffle?
maybe most here times being almost real
because tenterhooks keep you near krypton!
awful, a few guns for pens,
under the morning shadow-line, a
dash, (pix) of super-elevation


Philip Whalen
Arthur Rimbaud were born on October 20

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