Kerry Banazek



Things each kinds of thinkers that inspire :: to manufacturing
a somewhere else to take-with when I. Let's say, moving on.

The way, like bowls, somedays once held.  The sweet
choke of old flesh smelled from a distance.

For good and keeps or. In keeping with :: at the bus stop on
Jackson Street.  Letting and not-me, the way we go on ::

Living weeks at a time. The way :: language is contagion.





Here's how it is :: the earth got used up, but we kept trying
not to say it. A gasket for what-might-have—Happening.

Tracking instead :: Erotic Monogamy. Border patrol's tricks
and whims and where to get. Good-cheap Canada liquor.

Where a faulty winter turns. Birdred. Or edging
into. A where season means :: verb-stung / viral.

What can be turned into bodies, stored up as selves.





In rainstorm :: resilience.  A new hauntology :: the adjacent
possible. Once you have an inside, you can put things there.

To descend without notice or equipment. Admiration as
a substitute for belief.

Running on insomnia, a feeling remembers
:: teeth hollow,  difficulty.

True story :: luminous bodies. This, a good week for
A terrible word for us.

Consequences overwhelm their causes. Like a myth,
the place imposes its own logic. Sometimes we get a

second chance :: at being present, taking care/ful—
Form Giving is crucial to the Socialization of Pleasure.

On neighbors :: Are they arguing? No. Too many
voices—something good must be / over there.

Autonomy's a myth we shed. Every individual tragedy
is infinite.





Ears turned forward, you have to contend with anger.
New to the endlessly. Open a :: semiotic eye.

A perfect day for skywriting. What we used to
call 'future shock.' Open letters, beautiful ruins.

What used to be ramps for what used to be doors,
a sleazy gorgeous. Some aeronautic under-organs.

In and with and in response to :: go-go-go. Go is an
active waiting. Going to. The vast imagined. Honor is a grubby beast.





Just press the weakest ways. Just quit your
impulses. Just have. Like a collection of Japanese

slot machines :: I'm an obverse impulse.


Were we not, prostrate or enough. Our grasp is
gone :: Eyes like bones. They hold. You widely.

And we are singing about it.

It would be wrong to say my mouth feels dry, but something
about its going round inside feels all wood or porous with :: yonder,

admonish-ment. To prove the thought was really there.

I and -else :: just one word / world, agent and agent, copula.
Witnessing to. Our passage and our :: doesn't last long.


In the tuning brightness, a sapling is a kind of corrective.

Correction, usually when I :: local to the body, elicit
a rubric for seeking. Direct resolve, to follow-with-my-skin.

Instead of any sleep. These waking microdreams that consist
of nothing but deep, untethered flashes of feeling.






These poems recently moved from a mountain town to a rust belt city, where they started reading about new materialisms. Or else: I did that, and they came with me. I like to think of them as tracking devices.