May 16, 2008

 

 


brittle fish
treeline, stars--

the sound of water


 

 



 

 


 

 
 

 


Bring Your Child to Work
U.S. Patent Office

Impending investigation.
Needs more windows that open.

Daisies on a mug; daisy on a desk.
To say 'Excuse' if, when opening a door,
someone is already there.

Samples: one wallet; no notes.
a hair i can not match.

the necessary signature.




 


 


 


 

May 13, 2008

 

 

 
we stop
a black bear crosses the road
looking at us once

 

 

 

 

 

 
 

 

 
 

 

 
tighter than a jobless scotsman
wetter than twin bottles of nun

all of dream, a calculus re-
evaluating itself, floor to

floor to tongue to dry sclera
teeth without jaw, your lashes

 

 

 

 

 

 

May 12, 2008

 

 

 
i don't know what you don't know--
fuck death--

kill the pig--


 

 

 

 

 

 
 

 

 
 

 

 
a ring cheap and old
upon a bracelet
upon her wrist


 

 

 

 

 

 
 

 

 
 

 

 
threnodochal leaves
scuttle straw

a cup


 

 

 

 

 

 
 

 

 
 

 

 
a woodtick
on a mouse

cold

 

 

 

 

 

 
 

 

 
 

 

 
see
amber awhir

slung


 

 

 

 

 

 
 

 

 
 

 
If you can offer it, I can take it--
It seems fair, as it has nothing to do--
With how one moves, let alone discern--
With greasy stare, amicable--
Alchemical, as jetsam to a shark--
With or without the sense of a new--

Time devises, a catchword, berave--
Piano, violin and atonal--
Roar-fade, cricket, straked kite--
Watson, we are destroyed and so--
We flower, we nonsensicate wisdom--
Old death, all is bereft of sense--

If you can offer it, I can take it--
It seems fair, I am your only defense--


 

 

 

 

 

 
 

 

 
the pen catches, the brush
put down, edges serrate
whatever ledge you choose
as your domain,

a calliope of shells
gristles into sand,

the moon was a thumbprint
pressing forward,

may you float
into ground.


 

 

 

 

 

 
 

 

 


the mind sometimes twitches
switching on and off
the heart

that smoothes again the mind
as it capillaries
and cocoons


 

 

 

 

 

 
 

 

 
an abstracted presence
of shadow, rain and leaves
upon leaves, leaves--



 

 

 

 

 

   

 

 

May 9, 2008

 


arietta
blue
cannery
diocese
ecclesia
fairn
graphia
hegari infinitesimal
jivanmukti knossian
lentamente minyulite
noria orphist periless
quatrible rial shomer
trimeteruniform vermicule
weissnichtwo
xerothermic
yttrium
zareba
yohimbe
xyloquinone
welterweight
terpenicunkempt vexillary
quietsome raob sensum
nhang obsequy palatine
locomotive mancipate
jardiniere ketazine
hazily inculpability
guildry
fugue
eluviate
dormant
coupage
best
aquiver
bixa
chamois
decapod
epiphora
finis
gallium
haught incommiscible
juxtaposed kamleika
leberwurst madrepore
natya ophiura portague
quaesitum rape stardom
thereminululant viminaria
wallydraigle
xenopodidae
yangtao
zoisia
xiphiplastral yclept
ubiquist venatrial weaponsmith
ruminal systatic trigeminal
oopuhue profunditude quinarius
loment mullar neutropenia
infestant jojoba kame
glyptic holard
endpiece fictile
dysphrasia claggum
berairou
aorist











May 8, 2008

 

 

 
quiet day--

    burning leaves
    before a storm
 

 

 

 

 

 
 

 

 
 


solar
dentata
conscripted
purloined
apothecary
vis-a-vis
allembro
pistole
commendable
tureen
parsnip
equitable
fulminary
avant
disgruntle
conestoga
incendiary
surplus
jesuit
malordor
conversation
banyan
papier-mache
elegant
vanilla
hierarchical
duodenum
counselor
teriyaki
pterodactyl
settee
forge
wisconsin
children
viscosity
tendon
parfum
facility
zinc
parenthetical
flavor
abomination
digress
bicep
colour
cant
serengeti
psalm
limpid
rote
calliope
trickle
elan
carnivore
test
understand











May 7, 2008


I.

The silver willow no man had planted bloomed the night of her birth.
It was her grandmother who died between contractions, an accident
of old tissue and cartilege slipping softly, bringing the basin down
from her daughter's room. Her first words: Dolorum. First prank?
Tying a two pound bullfrog to the kitchen ceiling's light string
one dark and quiet night, and then shrieking, from under the table,
after her mother's initial fright. Her first menses occured at eight;
the second appeared at twelve. School was adequate; boys, less so.
How it happened then, is perhaps too banal to relate, and yet:
A blindman's dog growled; a dozen cats followed; two doves fell dead
at her feet, in a dream far more real than waking, and so she stayed
in a realm not her cancer, nor ours, would touch, after much work.
The black willow she tends to, does not weep, but burning, wires about.


II.

The closest farmer slaughtered his oldest Holstein within seconds
of her first breath. Her father will later say he had argued for Charity,
but found compromise, seduced by an afterbirth kiss. One teacher notes:
Clarity's refusal to focus upon any one task as a task ineluctable
is of paramount joy, tantamount to vexation. At sixteen, her Ode
to Melancholy simply catalogues drugs both pre- and proscribed
to then sum going street price. She twice fellates a tattoo artiste
for the portrayal of a coral snake, sans black but for eye and tail,
aswim and lifesize upon collarbone. What made her turn, so exactly,
may not be understood even if told, and yet: There came an autumn
day of August she witnessed a woman pushed into traffic by her child,
a boy more sprite than demon, destroyed before her eyes. The driver
whispered prayers, and held the mother's hands; she restrained the boy.


III.

There was a storm when you were born; the earth was dry until after.
Recognition that you practiced masturbation while still in diapers
occured at six or seven; which one, you are uncertain. You once told
the grassy gulley wood every green shade was loved; this, a curse
that gained momentum, intended for that first lover-cum-enemy, unmailed
and burned in the basement sink instead. Books, television, music
and computers: Lines, lines, lines that lead you nowhere, providing
clue as to what to do, should you ever arrive. You talk of God to God,
guessing He or She (or yes, It) is to be cajoled from scalar corners
with promises of self. What will change you, even you don't know
but for the gravity of death, and yet, and still: this morning,
your body respired slowly, a spider crawled along your inner thigh,
you dreamt of water, and you gloried as you stretched yourself out.
 













 

 

 

 

 

May 4, 2008

 

 

 
i'm here
to tell secrets
to the enemy.

 

 

 

 

 

 
 

 

 
 

 

 
the mutable dog and scrutable cat
ate an orange and took a bath
at 11205. the cat was drapery--
the dog was nice. there were mice.
a turtle climbed up the stairs.
there was snow all over clear
and made of something lighter
than water. a wolverine
killed a bear. there were doves
at 11205. vacancy hums. a worm
took upon himself stone.

when you arrived, i did not
try to outguess you; i took out
my heart; i slit my wrists.

 

 

 

 

 

 
 

 

 
life is but a dream, or death is but a joke
about a taxi with its own theory of weather.

 

 

 

 

 

 
 

 

 
threnody for evolution


of waves concurrently

disembodied and blue

that pierce the heart

of noontide and truth

a knife on display

everything ridged

with a delicate blur

and delayed.

a disavowment

of themselves

as they marry

and contort

in their ballet

of losing themselves

as notes simultaneously

in sacrilege

of themselves.

they play

the waves.

they say

alleluia.
 

 

 

 

 

 
 

 

 
nobody bets
on a horse to break
both ankles

what bookie
would take that bet
at those odds?

 

 

 

 

 

 
 

 

 
maybe every man dreams himself a king
every green blade of girl a dark queen
the number of plans we make against charade
probably fall to memory exponentially

perhaps you'll talk to god when this is over
in any event what is dead has been done
and it may be just as likely there is nothing
and so I repeat myself: what is dead is done

once upon a time ago amidst a switch
of rivers a little girl dreamed of now
and has been dreaming all the while

once upon a time away near from now
a child will either die or reawaken
and what has died will have been sung.

 

 

 

 

 

 

May 3, 2008

 

 

 
To snap the line upon a log you can not see,
and then descant a beast by the snapping.


 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 
 

 

 

we adream

 

 

 

 

 

 
 

 

 
 

 

 
cherub baby balloons
lifelike

floating.

 

 

 

 

 

 
 

 

 
 

 

 
forgive us
for how we deal with death
as death deals himself out
with a sneer.
 

 

 

 

 

 
 

 

 
 

 

 
what is it like to not forget the linden trees and aspen
enshrined in spring cloud;

what perversity is it to remember?

 

 

 

 

 

   

 

 

May 2, 2008

 

 

 
Do not write to have a dialog.
And if you're writing to yourself,
don't respond.
 

 

 

 

 

 
 

 

 
 

 

 
I am primal. A top hat.
Insecure. A cane askew.

If you knock and no one
comes, do not knock twice--

please leave the plants
in the yard. A new tongue.
 

 

 

 

 

 
 

 

 
counters
counterset

ships sink
 

 

 

 

 

 
 

 

 

he ended up thinking
like his cat.

less and less.
 

 

 

 

 

 
 

 

 
there are things you need to say
before you say the things you mean;
give them credit to believe you,
to show the things you've seen--

an excellent nonsense exasperated
by toil, and still you need to say:

there is a castle in a canyon--
there it goes; there a child starves
in lives of window and of door;
the weather war and war tenor;

there a carcass before vines;
there a flicker of lightning,
clapping afterthought; there
successions of eclipse.
 

 

 

 

 

 
 

 

 
I dream about
you, at night;

in pajamas.
 

 

 

 

 

 
 

 

 
selfpoetic;
epicritical dissonance
relative harmony.
 

 

 

 

 

 
 

 

 
 

 

 
woman
with a t-shirt

here to help

 

 

 

 

 

 
 

 

 
 

 

 
bought a serra sculpture
put a urinal in it

planted trees

 

 

 

 

 

 
 

 

 
 

 

 
to be famous
change
the only fortune
 

 

 

 

 

 
 

 

 
All of writing is but starting your own meme,
cutting the world in half to broaden horizons:
all of reading, I suppose just the same, as that
which is not ever true, but clean.
 

 

 

 

 

 
 

 

 
 

 

 
The American Dream is smaller, simpler; more refined.

 

 

 

 

 

 
 

 

 
 

 

 
lights!
camera!

action.
 

 

 

 

 

 
 

 

 
 

 

 
And so we walked out into the swirling grass, me and you.
Whispers of darkness in summer's noon, you and I.

 

 

 

 

 

 
 

 

 

May 1, 2008

 

 

As silty pure as snow over high mountain
chiseling crags in June; the grit of brook
gathering down to bubble if not froth
into the scouring waves, resplendently

on time. As curious as fire dying as it
catches and holds; the pop and ting
and collapse; all that warmth it gives
and still it wants, embers in the mildest

red-ache of breezes. As presumptuous
as the tomb as an altar; my idols are living
without testament, reproving themselves

and disproving others, also themselves.
As quiet as dehydration, and a fall of ash.
As bright as the concept of a black hole.
 

 

 

 

 

 
 

 

 

accidentally
two cigarettes burning
I smoke them both
 

 

 

 

 

 
 

 

 
a fly
a bee

a watermelon
 

 

 

 

 

 
 

 

 
think the things we see
and suicidal we are

we are murderers
and in our terror warm
 

 

 

 

 

 
 

 

 

I made him stretch before I killed him.
With respect, and irrespective of the fact
there were no armies; he and I alone
in dark forest. I had him undress.

Had he harmed me; had he bettered
the world? Yes; of course--
Revelation permeates--
The dying man wiped his brow.

I shot him and did not hear a sound.
There was a humorous contraction.
The body splay, no longer sly.

I shot him in the throat.
He had tried to say what was liked.
Wisdom unprofound.
 

 

 

 

 

 
 

 

 

What deeds have the great ones done, that need redoing?
My mind is a stone.

Laughter at the sub-atomic levels; what else but this?
Ripples more warble than weft.

My mind is a cataclysm. My mind is a catalyst.
Heartache, home of joy.

 

 

 

 

 

 
 

 

 
a series of words fit a feeling.
didactic insults the autodidact.

a polyphony of ricochet.

 

 

 

 

 

 
 

 

 
 

 
Let us leave the concert early,
for Mayfair Street is moonlit-cool
with panther false asleep,
playfully hunting among the temples
of riverbed rock, and in darkness

lost. Let us find a place to watch
the river arrive and leave in certitude,
and drink to honor night grown of night,
restless as the nearest eastern city
pink upon the sky.

Let us hope for storm, and eat
oranges; inhale lightning as we kiss.
Let us leave the concert early
for Mayfair Street's caress.
 

 

 

 

 

 
 

 
            in that window today--
                    an unlit candle


tilted to the right.
 

 

 

 

 

 
 

 
 

 
A deep man
who can not say simple things

is shallower still,
trying to say a thing at all--
A good man tells the truth.

All is wicked; every wick
a fuse ethereal,
but only in detonation.

 

 

 

 

 

 
 

 
Writing about it, isn't poetry.
That's the first thing they teach.
Not writing about it, even less so--
But that's more grasp than reach.

There's really not much to say,
if you just want to write; but--
Not wanting to write, that's just
wrong, unless you've something

to say, of course. Deep philo-
sophical questions like, "Am I
making sense?" What does life
give a damn for madness? Not much

responds some symphonic majesty--
Which makes one higher than thou.