When Everything Is Bright In Ypsilanti

poems by John Farmer

I I think Im

a fine dust
feeling when I think Im music feeling anything fracturing & dissolving when touched like a peach. Ill re you, Ill fa you. Do you note me where sensations stand a chance of being perceptible without artificial light

II Ive been paying attention to the sky again tormenting the structure of my silence is like yr voice cycling now very much so something different something like porn music in the present No star falls out my mouth an abstract painting of a line allows us to bounce off each other throughout night I am distant because the clocks cant respond when Im trying not to shatter I wonder what it means not to be here, to be the things Ive abolished

Time

III My body keeps becoming the object of a future

in the space of a comma I want to be dissolving like dawn

the instant we touch. Can I even be aware of how time makes my body delirious

world being whatever yr body voices

meaning there is only so much. I want to make it seem whole

I mean I want to seem whole

like a montha memory keeps becoming my body. I, too, stand in the way as poems ruin more than I ever like

IV I like to collect memories

the distance between us

when everything is bright in Ypsilanti. Teach me how the iron dawn yawns out theretattoo it on my back. For now, Ill dream the past feeds the things I cant be hidden in. I hope I remember to get the ghosts out of my refrigerator before I see you again. Im not interested in staying nor going. Is this not somewhat positive? The grass is green

V The weather is the memory of a kiss. I am handsome from a distance

a necessity for repetition

& there is plenty of evening & yet no blisters & dark color tomorrow. Im everything

if filled of yr phantoms until I undress.

Im coming to terms with yr name dissolving a warm light in my speech

draping the need. I need this absence. I cant inscribe

how I lost my body. I want to be

VI I want to be lengthy tho the airs obsessed with meaning seems thickening. Every day is no beginning again spent in memory without sweet talk. I am called lava & water. I am everywhere. The eucalyptus trees in my heart could be loved if I could be a priest in the morning as we become vague again

VII I think Im

fracturing & dissolving

a fine dust when touch torments the structure of my silence like a peach feeling Im anything music feeling when I think without artificial light. Ill re you, Ill fa you. Do you note me? My body keeps becoming something different out my mouth I wonder what it means

VIII when Im trying not to shatter the instant we touch. Can I even be aware in the present if sensations stand a chance of being perceptible something like porn music? I want to seem whole before I see you again

in my speech obsessed with meaning

in the morning. I hope I remember how the iron dawn yawns out there when everything is bright in Ypsilanti. Teach me how the grass is green. The weather a memory of a kiss tattoo it on my back

IX I am handsome from a distance. I cant be the ghosts hiding in the refrigerator. Im coming to terms with the

distance between us
how yr phantoms stand in the way of a future I want to be fucked by. For now Ill dream the past keeps becoming my body as we become vague again

X The eucalyptus trees in my heart could be loved if I could be

lava & water

a priest in the morning without sweet talk. I want to be my body. I cant inscribe

how I lost the need inside

this absence. I am lengthy & there is plenty of evening yet no dark color the instant we touch

makes my body delirious anything music

XI Imagine you cant remember being away a day from here until yre done, until Im gone. where do I find this night?

Tell me,

The moon rises bright. I want to remember when the world was you as tho you gather, become music. Its so cold in here I cant do anything. Snow comes down on Ypsilanti (& Asia rages miserably below). The lamp you gave me is lighting up this page & here I am beating my brains out over spring. Theres a breeze sort of very much alive all night too in this poem by me

XII Youve been paying attention to the sky again A wind moves a little desire here in order to guarantee yr sense of geography & of course spring comes & only obscures it without too much need Light lights in air you imagine to feel sing the music of

whatever news the future brings to the world

depriving ourselves of potentialities Take it from me what we need is each other Heat & substance sweeter than music to be felt up for meaningful speech What else do you need to know? The sky is as blue as its always been

XIII hello, hello, it is now early spring Im going to miss the sun coming up as you jot down distant sounds & scents across ourselves thru the fog & gas I like to collect memories here in order to guarantee my sense of geography the instant we touch I feel like a trespasser of the present constrained & inadequate passing thru a difference which seems new & underwhelming What does it all mean? So one of us builds the past to make music I wish Id written in this time I am alive to love you in this poem by me

XIV Stop telling me I look tired. I know the night goes on restlessly which explains things tho the airs obsessed with meaning Well now, hold on maybe I wont go to sleep at all I just want to be true tho I seldom enjoy the process if filled of yr phantoms The grass is green The weathers ideal for a picnic & I am handsome from a distance I know what I look like Tell me how I feel Theres a breeze sort of very much alive What is the wind what is it What else can I tell you? I am everywhere Something else something else one minute & not the next

XV The lamp you gave me is lighting up this page because my doors are open to the ghost or the blue sea. Its so cold in here I cant be a saint & there is plenty of evening & yet no snow comes down on Ypsilanti. The past is like a bad back & a style in bed makes history. Yr goodies dissolving a warm light are the goodiest goodies I ever did see in a small space of time sort of very much alive & here I am beating my brains out over music

XVI The dream is not a map across lines of ourselves fracturing & dissolving in the practice of our nightly act. All Im certain of is yesterday passed. Today is today. A wind moves a little desire. Give me something more to see anything if anything common might be lived, feeling I want to live one long life being really nothing. The moon rises bright. I flash & yearn. O ho alas alas when will the bombs from below bloom? Look, go search for it, there in the photograph as if to see whats really going on seeing how we cant see ourselves. Please dont mention our real position as electricity replaces memory & of course spring comes & only obscures it

XVII Im handsome from a distance. Theres plenty of evening if filled of yr phantoms dissolving a warm light in my speech. I cant inscribe how I lost my mind. I want to be lengthy in memory without sweet talk. I am called lava & water. I am everywhere. The night goes on restlessly & here I am beating my brains out over spring until Im gone one minute & not the next. Its so cold in here I cant do anything. Perhaps Im kidding myself about the world. I dont know. Tell me, where do I see what I love with an appetite? I am faint & weak only because my doors are open so I took two pills. Ive undressed as a passing thought

XVIII Yesterday I invented syphilis. Today I am going to be eaten by images Every touch is inventoried, analyzed, nursed in memory. But it is said there is a sound for each feeling. Ill have to include all of this in my story. Private property, thats why Tell me only happy things I wouldnt believe in the morning. I want some record of our having been together & the butterfly isnt alive as a symbol ever. I mean I want to seem whole before I see you again. I am faint & weak only because my doors are open to sing the music of whatever yr body voices when everything is still in Ypsilanti. Gray walls fail to bring quiet in the evening

XIX The rain is cruel as we become vague again never enough, tho we look from the window, gazing war, pestilence, droughts, internal strife, inflation one minute & not the next. Still not feeling lengthy, tho the airs obsessed with something. You shouldve stayed at home. You imagine you cant remember love can so wreck the moon, tho it may kill you any second when you go out into the street

XX My naked weapon is out. Clearly, I am not a farmer or a milkman. Can you carry this? I dont want to look pretentious. Even if yr heart is messy, I will clean it up. Open Sesame, Ali Baba. You made me want to be a saint. Are you my Angel? Why dont you use the door? I am not afraid of the night. Well now, hold on maybe I wont go to sleep at all. I am using my skin for wallpaper & cellos call out what I will do to you. Stop telling me I look tired. I know what I look like Tell me how I feel

XXI Hello, Ypsilanti. It is dawn. Wake up & let yourself out of yourself. Smell yourselves. You smell normal. Here is my hand craving progress when desire forms a meaningless twitch. I remember everyones in love & flowers pick themselves when you get here I will undress but never know why. A woman is a dark night after a week of rain & the sun seeps out of the room. Yre like a sentence cant be parsed. Im so happy. Words fail me

XXII I have no sense of touch. Oh, how I want to make someone happy. I feel funny when these feelings of weakness occur. There are far more queer things about living in this city. I do not hear the events around me & there is no other alternative than to despise all the Tom Waits impersonators just shouting outside & everything seems just incoherent, sort of mechanical & I cant tell what is serious & what isnt. Is it really? I havent the slightest idea. There seems to be no historical explanation for anything rational to happen

XXIII I want to be enough & not too much but wanted to write about this whole thing to last all night long. We live in a city the heavens have refused & still they mean something. Tell me, again, who I am only happy things I wouldnt believe in the morning I have disappeared with the voice of a bird. No, no, thats not right but it may happen to me in the light of absurd reality but I am not someone who likes to wound tomorrow open for music. I am delirious & I know it. Forgive me. The rain stirs desire. The weathers the memory of a kiss. I am aware I want you more than a word because I never confuse names

XXIV Ive been paying attention to my body becoming the sky, the eucalyptus trees when Im trying not to shatter. I have no sense of touch. Oh, how I want to be enough & not too much. It is now early spring. The rain is cruel, tells me I look tired. I know theres plenty of evening across lines of ourselves. My naked weapon is out. Hello hello

XXV I just want to see what I love with an appetite fracturing & dissolving tho the winds tormenting the structure of my silence the distance between us. The memory of a kiss is lighting up this page. I feel funny in a city the heavens have refused. Rain comes down on Ypsilanti the instant we touch. The moon moves a little desire as the night goes on restlessly while I jot down distant sounds & scents as we become vague again

XXVI Im not interested in staying nor going when Im trying not to shatter my body. Do you note me becoming the things Ive abolished? For now, the grass is green, Ill dream sweeter music to be felt I am alive in this time to love you. I am everywhere. Please dont mention love can so wreck the moon. Does it really? I havent the slightest idea. Teach me how the rain stirs desire as the weathers the memory of a kiss seeping out of the room

XXVII I am called anything

yr body voices.
No star falls in the present without sweet talk. The weathers ideal to feel constrained & inadequate one minute & not the next. I have disappeared

Are you my Angel?

with the voice of a bird feeling Im everywhere beating my brains out over Ypsilanti as flowers pick themselves

XXVIII I want to remember when the world was lava & water the instant we touch. Can I even be aware? Tell me, again, who I am tattoo it on my back. Every day is no beginning & there is plenty of evening to gather the structure of my silence tho I seldom enjoy the process to guarantee my sense of geography. Give me something more to see. Its so cold in here I cant be a saint anything. Open Sesame, Ali Baba

XXIX I want to be abbreviated or the blue sea A wind moves a little desire thru the fog & gas I am faint & weak only because my mouth is open maybe I wont go to sleep at all Even if yr heart is messy beating the ghosts out of my brain & of course spring comes when Im music touch torments memory in the space of a comma I just want to be fucked now very much so because my doors are open

XXX Hello hello. The rain is cruel without sweet talk. The lights are out. Do you note me? I flash & yearn very much so like porn music but not so sweet Tell me I am. I could love you like a warm light. For now, Ill dream

wild, wild horses

XXXI The rains stirs desire in the morning as flowers pick themselves which explains things I wanted to tell you Atoms & dreams are lighting up this page In this city times like yr voice cycling until Im gone & these sounds are not words if I could be each golden trace of light & not too much

XXXII Time makes my body delirious like a peach anything something like porn music. You made me want to be a saint the instant we touch only happy things I wouldnt believe in the morning. I dont know. I feel like a trespasser if filled of yr phantoms so I took two pills again. Now theres plenty of evening if anything common might be lived, feeling theres no other alternative than to despise everyone is in love & yet no lava & water

XXXIII I dont know but it may happen to me meaning there is only so much I want. I cant contain whatever news

the future brings to the world my body

when touched as lava & water until I undress yr phantoms. No, no, thats not right. I am not afraid. The moon rises bright. I flash & yearn yr goodies dissolving in my mouth. I will undress the night when you get here until Im gone

XXXIV I hope I remember to seem whole depriving ourselves like a peach of potentialities. Its so cold in here I cant do anything. I want to be true tho the airs obsessed, meaning when will the bombs from below bloom? O ho alas alas Well now, hold on maybe everything seems just incoherent without artificial light bouncing off each other. Im coming to terms with yr name how yr phantoms stand like eucalyptus trees. What does it all mean? Tell me how I feel. I know what I look like

XXXV Ill fa you everywhere as clocks cant drape the need like a month until Ive undressed each other music. You imagine you cant remember I am delirious. Forgive me. I know it like heat & substance. What else can I tell you I want to be fucked after a week of rain? I am using my skin for wallpaper. I wish Id written sun. Tell me

when everythings bright in Ypsilanti

the pasts like a bad back as if to see whats really going on to find this night like a memory

Do you note me?

XXXVI I wonder what it means not to be here where sensations stand in the way the instant we touch I keep becoming the weather sort of very much alive. The breeze is a kiss or a memory something else. Im so happy. Words fail me. Stop telling me I look tired. I am aware I want you more than a word. There seems to be no historical explanation. Is this not somewhat positive? What else do you need to know?

XXXVII The skys as blue as its always been in this poem by me & of course springs here & only obscures it as rain falls on Ypsilanti I wonder what it means to be my body one minute & not the next while poems ruin more than I ever like so Ive undressed as a passing thought, took two pills & went into the street to become vague again delirious while beating Moby Dick over anything perceptible, music without artificial light for anything rational to happen

XXXVIII What I want is not momentarily here. I just want to see what I love with an appetite to sing the music of whatever yr body voices the distance between us. A wind moves a little desire. The weathers constrained & inadequate as I jot down distant sounds & scents which explains things in the practice of our nightly act as we dissolve one minute & not the next. I feel funny a fine dust fracturing the object of a future as Asia rages miserably below. Are you my Angel? Clearly, I am not a farmer or a milkman

XXXIX I was a singer once In distant trees the night goes on restlessly Here I am after a week of rain & the sun seeps fracturing the object of a future while poems ruin more than I ever like meaning there is only so much I want You may consist of dancing animals within this midnight city I suppose its said there is a sound for each feeling I know what I sound like Tell me I feel like a breeze sort of very much real in this time I am alive to love you Disappear between the moon & earth of the instant Open Sesame, Ali Baba

XL Can I even be aware like a peach seeming something different whole? Im coming to terms with feeling yr name & there is plenty of winter to remember how I lost the need when the world was lava & water depriving ourselves of potentialities without too much need. I want to be true or underwhelming the blue sea. I know what I look like. Tell me how I feel tho I seldom enjoy the process in order to guarantee my sense to see anything O ho alas alas I cant be a saint when the bombs from below bloom

XLI I cant write about this whole thing like a wound open to tomorrows music making someone happy. I feel funny. Clearly, I am not a farmer or a milkman. I wont go to sleep at all. Ill re you, Ill fa you the way a future comes down on Ypsilanti. Tell me, this absence moves a little desire with an appetite as you jot down sounds & scents sort of very much alive in the practice of our nightly act lighting up this page as we become vague. Perhaps Im kidding myself about the world. I cant tell

XLII The lamp you gave me is lighting up this page. Heat & substance guarantees my sense of geography each other when everythings bright I cant be in Ypsilanti. I want to be fucked till Im a fine dust obsessed with meaning. Do you note me like a month a memory dissolving like dawn? Im delirious, I know it. Forgive me. I dont want to look pretentious when these feelings of weakness appear after a week of rain & sun. Im using my skin as wallpaper

XLIII I wonder what it means as the night goes on restlessly I wanted to tell you sounds & scents sort of very much Here is my hand, craving like a peach anything something lengthy like a future when touched as lava & water & here I am beating the scattered ghosts of what happens to love But I still want feeling when I think I cant be handsome from a distance because they accused me of poems

XLIV I think Im lily cotton & limit after a week of rain & the sun seeps bruised with rays. Yr body voices when touched my desire is inconsequential tho the airs now very much so our mouths seeping out of the room. Tell me I am an island to make me seem whole a song to be traded for a smile, the sound of anythingpine needles falling. I know its said there is a sound for each feeling in the morning something different to love for anything rational to happen. Forgive me dissolving like dawn I am using my skin for wallpaper Oh god,

XLV What else do you need to know? I have disappeared O ho alas alas Well now, hold on maybe everyones in love. The moon rises bright. Gray walls fail to bring quiet in the evening with patterns. The scattered ghosts yr body voices depriving ourselves of potentialities one minute & not the next & of course fall comes again tormenting the structure of my silence. Perhaps Im kidding myself. I am not someone or a scale-map of the entire universe. Do you note me like a month can so wreck the moon? I want to seem whole before I see you again. But I cannot sing no song until Ive undressed the sound of words as they fall away from our mouths

XLVI I know the rain is cruel like God. The lights are out feeling

atom and dream

a song. The weather is our mouths which explains things to love when the world was yr name but not so sweet

XLVII I am faint & weak as rain falls on Ypsilanti the instant we touch tho the airs obsessed with meaning. I keep becoming something different out my mouth to tell you Nothing of what happens while the heart twists yr body voices performs some complicated symbolic dance with sounds & scents sort of very much dissolving like dawn

all night too, in this poem by me

XLVIII The weathers ideal to feel oh I dont know. No star falls in the present which explains things & why I love you so much & not too much. Tell me, again, who I am when the world is confined to the flesh only. Take it from me alas I cant be a saint in this city. My naked weapon is out. Hello hello

XLIX In the distant night, children are singing what we have lost or never thought. Thats why when I lay down to sleep, its all pork chops & the wornout rainbows that time suffers. Beauty is so rare a thing, Pound once sang & he is goneor, at the very best, in a city the heavens have refused & here I am still not feeling lengthy. Im thinking this wasnt what I wanted. What if I went crazy for a moment? Yesterday I invented syphilis. Today I am going to write a poem to be traded for a smile, or the sound of a kiss or a memory something else

L The moon rises bright. I wanted to tell you of how time makes my body delirious lily cotton & each golden trace of light with my tongue full of loving & agony. I am not someone I want to remember when everythings still in Ypsilanti. Are you my Angel? I have no sense of touch to guarantee a use for geography. I am faint & weak as flowers finger themselves Again, I dont know why this always happens the instant we touch. You want me to tell you the night goes on restlessly & here I am writing the same poem & these sounds just a hole white emptiness

are not words we could fill it

LI The rain stirs desire without artificial light. There seems to be no historical explanation to love but I still want like all the novels Ive read & there is plenty of evening to remember the distance between us within this midnight city. I want to live one long life being really nothing & a colored fountain before I see you again so I took two pills. Ive undressed as a passing thought seeping out of the room. My heart is full of paper. I want some record of our having been together (tattoo it on my back) where sensations stand a chance. I have become lost many times along the Huron with the voice of a bird & there was darkness hanging in my speech. I cant inscribe how I lost my body

LII I am aware I want you more than a word to guarantee my sense of geography if anything common might be felt like heat & substance. What else can I tell you

I want to be fucked after a week of rain?

Of how time makes my body delirious? & of course fall comes & only obscures it with my tongue full of loving & agony in the present if sensations stand a chance over anything perceptible, music that had to be included in our poetry. I am thinking this wasnt what I wanted. A cello calls out what I will do to you. Are you my Angel? Why dont you use the door?

LIII Hello, hello, it is now early fall. All Im certain of is yesterday passed. The sky is as blue as its always been. I want to remember when the world was only happy things I wouldnt believe between the moon & earth in a breath. Are you my Angel? Dont you use the door? Ill re you, Ill fa you. Do you note me? O ho alas alas Well now, hold on everything seems just incoherent. Stop telling me I look tired. I know what I look like but tell me how I feel

for anything rational to happen

I am alive in this time to love you

LIV I want the wind lost from its valleys sounds & scents sort of very much the memory of a kiss. I am something different out my mouth in the practice of our nightly act tho the airs obsessed with meaning. My body keeps becoming a map. I wish Id written sun. Tell me, in 4 AM sounds & river air the moon is tied to a few strings, the wind moves a little desire when touched as lava & water more than these shadowsbut it is you seeming something different whole

LV

I cant be a diamond bruised with rays. Im coming to terms with yr name without touch like god a fine dust I wish Id written sun. Tell me something else to know anything sweeter than music to be felt tho the airs a song you if I Oh, how I want to be enough anything when touched. Forgive me & let yrself out of yrself like a peach feeling the patterns even if yr heart is messy an island. I know. Im music seeming different something whole

LVI My body keeps becoming a map (Every touch is inventoried, analyzed, nursed in memory) seeming different something whole one minute & not the next I wonder what it means You want me to tell you (My naked weapon is out) Nothing in my body escapes me I daydream of some shore a long way off when Im trying not to shatter Tell me, again, who I am But not so sweet Im coming to terms with

the moon is tied to a few strings

yr name

LVII You want me to tell you Nothing in my body escapes me Im trying to imagine

wild, wild horses

birds heading west when I ask the psychic to patch me with white dots, & laid end to end. Mysterious Trucks & trains go east in 4 AM sounds & river air but it is said there is a sound for each feeling, & these sounds are not words so much somebody elses What if I went crazy for a moment if again. I always get to change minutes

LVIII I was a singer once In distant trees within this midnight city I suppose Im lonely in Ypsilanti This much is clear I am the land while the heart twists, disappears down in the world tough as smoke But I cannot sing no song I have not sung I am thinking This is false in any poem Like a dream is Or a scale-map of the entire universe & why I love you so much This much is clear I am thinking This is almost goodbye

LIX I am thinking this wasnt what I wanted to say. I wanted to tell you I want the wind lost from its valleys & the wornout rainbows that time suffers. (My heart was full of paper & a colored fountain.) Here in the dark they remain open, become things to be traded for a smile or the sound of the negative that cannot happen with my tongue full of loving & agony I am thinking I could love you if I were a dove

LX It is as if we conjure the dead & they speak only within this midnight city. The customers complain that they dont look very much like Tarot cards. So I skip through the narrative & concentrate on the coffee & feel no terror in her gait of loneliness. I am thinking most things happen in twilight. I am thinking that does not really offend the F.B.I. that yr body could be Ypsilanti or a rain soaked road

LXI See sky surrounded. Bruised with rays. My heart is full of paper, lily cotton & shadow. I swear I could love you if I were a dove performing a complicated symbolic dance with my tongue full of loving & agony & a colored fountain

LXII The sun becomes a nest of singing birds & she is gone so the heart breaks Beauty is so rare a thing, Pound sang I can no more remember Love that had to be included in our poetry more than these shadowsbut it is you I am wishing Happy Independence Day. You have not listened to a word I have sung. You were looking for a naked man who would be like a river but I am the land or like a high-branching firtree. I mean I dont look the same (the leaves I mean) the leaves fall on fuzzy heads of fuzzy people

LXIII So yesterday I invented syphilis. Today I am going to write a poem to the reader of a poem or watch sunset fall upon that beach like others do. This wasnt what I wanted to say. I wanted to tell you I could love you if I were a dove. The waves are meant for drowning but when God is short entering the room the sun becomes a nest of singing birds & he is goneor, at the very best, a minstrel show impeccably played with my tongue full of loving & agony

LXIV I am thinking I keep writing the same poem, gaining & losing something with patterns. The scattered ghosts of what happens while the heart twists sings still deeper, conjures by its spell, disappears down in the world. When everything is bright in Ypsilanti nothing in my body escapes me without touch. You hide nothing. You cannot imagine This is false in any poem Like a dream is an island

LXV I want the wind lost from its valleys & the wornout rainbows that time suffers Remember when Rimbaud died he became older than yr alphabet I am thinking this wasnt what I wanted to say. I wanted to tell you

Nothing in my body escapes me

without touch is not enough is a real finger

Understanding Each finger

to love But I still want them. I keep writing gaining and losing the same poem something with patterns

LXVI I am the land (each day & I have bowed to the king of the swans & the roots that are gathered along (has new withdrawals sweet honey from yr drunken bones. Love you have not listened to

a word I have sung

should remain letters that does not have something analogous to poetry in it or so distant that our hearts could take care of themselves