another cut-up poem but this one is taken from john cheever's journals

the city, my heart, begins to rise.
over-scrutinizing its seventy-first formulation of the world does me so much harm.

susie, journey, a very cold girl with damn-fool ships, white with ice.

in the city a bitter cold kept us from the imitation of ill-fitting ideas.
vaguely formed depravity, decorated with mirrors and spoiled meat.

i've written a cheerful patriotic finale - flags, tears, performed by shadowy ladies.
cliches, mightily offended by a bony tiny smile animated by the purest ambition.

a woman with an unusually deep and heavy beauty that promises intractableness
that suggests a horizion of artfully betrayed bones, hungry.

i dreamed about a game of mutisyllabic pressure.
the dream discolered by food, dirt and scandalous marital mix-ups.

i dreamed that last night was changed and that someone explained to me:
my father there, and how unhappy my mother.