Brian Foley


As clouds out number people,
all afternoon a feeling -
nowhere are people
being right. Lately
it seems late, less dry brain-
paint staining the insides.
In certain self adjusted
buoyancy, a wish to dis
agree is willing to stand
in rain longer than anyone.
I seem to distaste
concealing and bake hate
as ordinary to excuse it,
cussed because I can’t expect
what’s flammable to flame
from within. Why wouldn’t
I animate urge ingredients
with general wreckage?
I’ve enough ordinary wax.
Little derogatory bits.
It gets so you can feel
these things totally
alive inside of a crime
uncommitted, just
like the dusk forgot
how to spell me, now
a collapse I doubt into.
What I’m abandoning,
by building vocabulary,
out baiting beautiful moments
that lack a referral.
I want to family
with the way you phrase
woods, how you take apart a life
to preview what works
well with others so.
Only in unprovoked
flinch do I solvent
a center easy as advice
as usual. Who do I know at
the end of a green light?
Alone, it is easier to go
right than left or wait
for red to calm down.
Just getting antique
you’re free
to fix on zoo hours,
made to visit some
wilderness & see
the unimagined animals
out of touch. A lightning
you’d like to get over
laying in the wheeling night.
But you who remind me
remind me full of oil
nothing in the chest
seems to move.
I woke this morning
never more clearer,
unclocked because
I didn’t bother to look
up and feel. Any second
a birthday will appear
and I won’t forget to
remember the present.
The idea being
you like holding things
pretending a friend.
I guess you could say let
the static do its nothing.
Deleting a worry from the earth
scraped off the cliché of sky
is wasted right now
instead of studying witness.
Unimportant what minor
keys jiggle the handle
flush for rewinding a life span
in the right direction.
As if peeling an eye at what
I’m abandoning by being
browsed down is
blood to be immortal by now.
To behave built,
building back what
ever is left of of particular
shatters, churching
everything to get at height.
No other reason porters
a plunge into laughing
past today. A comma
can’t tourniquet
the sky toward some crowd
or belief, the bag it comes in
hits the dream bar,
keeps on ending just shy
of sum up. Such an
organ isms with fear
with the hard feelings
its brain will run out.
Opening that grip,
abducted light. Such a hulk
had held me up for hours,
a little digital dayshine
everywhere always with
a difference in it I’m unwilling
to attach to now as was then.
More collaborative days
are ahead of us or isn’t
It nifty to think. So.
Some engine will find you
then nature is calling.
I don’t know his real
Name, but attempt it,
to wrap a noodle around
a spoon and never do.
Some terrible form is such weight
versus shape, you can’t make it
as a room where the furniture
won’t move, it must be
predictable as the moon
fucked in the air museum,
as sure as your beware
of the dark and dogs.
Ill just stand here and love
my oven, its lotto
snoring in its soul.
It needs not a septic
or a glitter to sue.
It stares back used
poor already
& hungry an hour later
evinced with pine or appetite
& liable to skillet dew.
To take the back seat
from knocking straight
is heart surgery, I keep
hoping someone
will be home to know me,
someone to know me
from home.
After objects, I’m showered out.
Whatever it is they do
to put in shadows
I invade a way to pretend
a mend out of it.

Brian Foley is the author of The Constitution (forthcoming from Black Ocean, 2014).

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