CHRIS RUSSELL lives in New Hampshire. JADE BRIEFCASES     she liked her beauty products strewn     about the green-lentil carpet so she could look at them planning some things out     what she did with those multi-colored things     he never knew         the boy he figured she was thinking     giving them to someone     but he never saw her get out     and nobody ever visited trailer #14         when the man wasn't home she'd always be at home     doing something         the boy     would return home from school put down     his book bag wait for his time     and ask her many types of questions     he'd later on remember to forget     finally suddenly     he'd glance her face         that didn't keep anything the time     so he'd begin unbuckling his     big-buckled belt walk     to the bed-         room without knowing where what was kneel     to the floor side the bed clasp     his hands together top the mattress as in prayer wait     the boy didn't pray     he didn't know how he knew that     when the man returned from work he'd ask him     for money to replace that would be broken. THE COMING WHITE To the dead, a rose stuck tired groves, raps red the clear-sucked moat dear the sparrowing dead. Duty to the place they shut up with, holes to the sky make bent, the first jade-layed litter put out by the near gut-tightening leach. Black- tubbed vaseline rain roosts the stink of brown water flies and fish finning cold sweaters their brother highway knitted deep. An orange-rubbered wire fence smiles rest a bit. In the wheated grass, a cricket's microscopic love preens a bee's legs plum-dark for flashes, welling a taste in color's bending clover. Snake-chattered helicopters scream beyond, stomping vermin too big for copper-hot water pipes, into their body-spoiled longs, soon to be be painted white by leave's upstanding slip of hills. Going comes the nerved horizon, numb, letting distance abut teach. SOLAR NOON I am in a box where truth is relative, and where I see manifestations that are not truth - true manifestations maybe, but not true - and I know this also is a lie. I am in a box where every moment is a recall, and where truths outside me are equivalent to the truths inside me - this is a vacuum - and I am a person, not a vacuum. THE SIMPLE They are there, the things that we see, and they are what they are, only this, and just this - paper is there because we see it, and not there because we don't see it - it's as simple as that, as us knowing where here is. To make a circus - an acrobatic return of a dirty floor peanut - of knowing is not a straight practice because it is not.