Raymond Farr
The Bee Keeper
                                                                           The view from the lofty houses of this country asylum ends in tendrils of exhaust at 3 below zero & winter is a snow bank of tedious pages I run crashing into, in my car.
                                                                                          & because I hardly believe that something as visceral as So much soft machinery untangles when you sleep is anything more than the wintry shadow of my silence, my work is a kind of emotional starvation—
this quantifiable honey I turn into shit. & my words are mere feet & end in the frailty of bad sentences—evidence of a strange humming figure traipsing after me in the snow. & why should it concern you?
                                                                           & if I tend them & believe in them or if I abandon them & become mad at them it is only because they are foolish daughters—a monster hive disturbed after having slept a millennium.
The Bird with No Discernible Edges
We could
Always
Get a tuba
& play
Pink Floyd’s
The Wall
At 4 am
Outside
A stranger’s
Bedroom
Window
& forget
We have
These
Waking
Lives
& dude
It’s like
I like
Yr very
Soul
Of a hat
It’s so
Anti-
Hatlessness
But its
Kind of
Funny too
I find myself
Watching
What I say
To you now
When all
I want to do
Is not talk
About it
The words
What-
Do-you-
Think-
Of-me-
As-you-
Look-
Down-
At-me-
From-yr-
Civilian-
Drone?
Like
A single
Broken
Afternoon
Like a bird
With no
Discernible
Edges
& because
The 6
Or 7
Impossible
Juxtapositions
Of outcomes
Collapsing
In the
Aftermath
Of an occult
Afternoon
Are not
Always
Part of
The equation
They are
Part of
The plot—
A thing
Entirely
Without
Nuance
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The Bee Keeper
                                                                           The view from the lofty houses of this country asylum ends in tendrils of exhaust at 3 below zero & winter is a snow bank of tedious pages I run crashing into, in my car.
                                                                                          & because I hardly believe that something as visceral as So much soft machinery untangles when you sleep is anything more than the wintry shadow of my silence, my work is a kind of emotional starvation—
this quantifiable honey I turn into shit. & my words are mere feet & end in the frailty of bad sentences—evidence of a strange humming figure traipsing after me in the snow. & why should it concern you?
                                                                           & if I tend them & believe in them or if I abandon them & become mad at them it is only because they are foolish daughters—a monster hive disturbed after having slept a millennium.
In the Land of the Enchanted Black Chevy
Death is everywhere like a dark country road.
But who couldn’t be saved—cured of their horrors by their horrors?!
& our room is just one angry window—
Spooky rain,
& Flint, MI on
Our truck radio
& someone in yr dream about a yellow café is yelling—“Come back here!
& be slowly existential!”
& someone else is shouting back at them—
“Yes, we want to!”
We could
Always
Get a tuba
& play
Pink Floyd’s
The Wall
At 4 am
Outside
A stranger’s
Bedroom
Window
& forget
We have
These
Waking
Lives
& dude
It’s like
I like
Yr very
Soul
Of a hat
It’s so
Anti-
Hatlessness
But its
Kind of
Funny too
I find myself
Watching
What I say
To you now
When all
I want to do
Is not talk
About it
The words
What-
Do-you-
Think-
Of-me-
As-you-
Look-
Down-
At-me-
From-yr-
Civilian-
Drone?
Like
A single
Broken
Afternoon
Like a bird
With no
Discernible
Edges
& because
The 6
Or 7
Impossible
Juxtapositions
Of outcomes
Collapsing
In the
Aftermath
Of an occult
Afternoon
Are not
Always
Part of
The equation
They are
Part of
The plot—
A thing
Entirely
Without
Nuance