If even once I stop
to feel, I am closer
to dying.
A thunderstorm rolls
over the horizon, upturned
my face absorbs its darkness.
I recognize a shadow
in the window; how it grew
then broke apart.
I cannot learn to live
forevor; follow me into
the cold, black night.
In the morning, mountains
in the distance, clouds
dripping orange light.
Staid Plaintiff
A doctor, a dodge, a fulcrum: all these and radiant choirs overstepping viscous marshes where onward flows the march of time. Or lately, the fading seizes a new set of nouns
Cheerful rejoinder seethes in the panic of another partly closed door. These are people, in our neighbourhood and drama. And these are friends, or else.
That sense of family that doesn’t quite work instills this native tongue-lashing. There was a disappointment to be gained, and a newsworthy loss, more or less. The more would be a staining that could apply. The less would be a node left behind
What arches over the testy remains of this juncture but the spotted title of leaving? We are turned around in emphasis, and feel hurt by little shards placed indiscreetly into our skin.
We have no time to care for having the time to care. We have been hurt by a leveling and the income of expanse. Humans are just the way they are, reporting their wages in rapt gaming, and still need a hug. Few hugs can be saved in this climate; the weather of politics wears us down.
When books end, a space opens. This is not to tease us, we have work to do. The human complement attains its mar, studiously vying for an effective resumption
No one wants to stay within that boundary, we all want to resist. Resistance is verbal, most times. We feel a loss, like a family. It can happen to anyone, not just our own falling tone.
The doctor is increment in some ladder effect. The dodge is extremes taken for function. A fulcrum is our basis, which we should honour with the name of our friends. The rest is a sentence, which hangs over our heads.
Cheerful rejoinder seethes in the panic of another partly closed door. These are people, in our neighbourhood and drama. And these are friends, or else.
That sense of family that doesn’t quite work instills this native tongue-lashing. There was a disappointment to be gained, and a newsworthy loss, more or less. The more would be a staining that could apply. The less would be a node left behind
What arches over the testy remains of this juncture but the spotted title of leaving? We are turned around in emphasis, and feel hurt by little shards placed indiscreetly into our skin.
We have no time to care for having the time to care. We have been hurt by a leveling and the income of expanse. Humans are just the way they are, reporting their wages in rapt gaming, and still need a hug. Few hugs can be saved in this climate; the weather of politics wears us down.
When books end, a space opens. This is not to tease us, we have work to do. The human complement attains its mar, studiously vying for an effective resumption
No one wants to stay within that boundary, we all want to resist. Resistance is verbal, most times. We feel a loss, like a family. It can happen to anyone, not just our own falling tone.
The doctor is increment in some ladder effect. The dodge is extremes taken for function. A fulcrum is our basis, which we should honour with the name of our friends. The rest is a sentence, which hangs over our heads.
Of Stars and Wolves
Look to the wolf for ideas. How to
spend your time creeping through darkness
towards the nimble hearted who will leave
this world in nature's belly.
Once, I believed I was made of stars;
poor, sad shining light swallowed by wolves
each time they howl. And beauty was
a yellow eye that caught the moon,
held it in its claws and mouth,
caught the deer, the shivering mouse,
the wavering gold-throated bird
without a sense of grief or guilt.
Can we help but wonder of visible life
as if the unseen, the subtle illusions
of movement (rustling leaves, distortion
of light, the hidden, invisible parts)
may not exist at all?
spend your time creeping through darkness
towards the nimble hearted who will leave
this world in nature's belly.
Once, I believed I was made of stars;
poor, sad shining light swallowed by wolves
each time they howl. And beauty was
a yellow eye that caught the moon,
held it in its claws and mouth,
caught the deer, the shivering mouse,
the wavering gold-throated bird
without a sense of grief or guilt.
Can we help but wonder of visible life
as if the unseen, the subtle illusions
of movement (rustling leaves, distortion
of light, the hidden, invisible parts)
may not exist at all?
'The Old Copy'
The old copy was damaged by water.
Still, I savoured the words
and discovered your prayer of fellowship:
no water drenching party or flesh fancy.
Even the best of intentions are often awkward to carry;
a tear dropped on a festival day is no different from any other.
all the wonderlust is cased in dire dependencies.
The call to ruin, the call to reward.
Nothing means much for more than a moment.
Somehow, the thought of someone writing today,
makes me remember how I loved that damaged thing.
The water damaged never mared the words on the page.
Still, I savoured the words
and discovered your prayer of fellowship:
no water drenching party or flesh fancy.
Even the best of intentions are often awkward to carry;
a tear dropped on a festival day is no different from any other.
all the wonderlust is cased in dire dependencies.
The call to ruin, the call to reward.
Nothing means much for more than a moment.
Somehow, the thought of someone writing today,
makes me remember how I loved that damaged thing.
The water damaged never mared the words on the page.
The Doom Day Parade
The doom day parade
Is moving down a downtown street past the library celebrating the birthday of TS Eliot
And the population is gathered with their children’s hands full of balloons
The nuclear bombs will bloom
The napalm will fly to bar-b-q the flesh of men and pets that aligned themselves with them
The missiles are aimed at the eye of a dragonfly
The doom day parade is only for human
Although it will change everything that commands man, it will kill trees as a happenstance
But the bees take no notice as if they can do without man, they go about their business as it regards flower
Look mom! There’s a bomb, can I ride it?
The doom day parade is full of high school bands
Playing the music of the last man to stand
Look mom! The generals in their uniform, can I ware one, can I!
The little boys cry out to be apart of the festive deeds
The doom day parade is moving through history
It is our story of the final destruction writ by the war mongrels
The doom day parade is coming down your neighborhoods; tanks, bombers and new M-16s gleam in the sunlight
Look mom a machineguns, can I have one, can I!
The children cry with excitement in their eyes
The doom day parade is populated with clowns with large over size shoes, a large red nose and baggy cloths
They are handing out claymores shaped candy, rocket launcher water guns and plastic G I Joes to the children of the parade goers
The last time love slapped me then wrapped me in its arms
I was about to cum, but there was none to hum the sensual delight of taunt flesh tight and dark beyond the tan of lighter men
The last time love pushed me over the edge I was repeating what I thought that I heard about two being one in the heat caught beneath the bed spread where the stain in the sheet looked like the continent of Africa
The last time love ran me down I was playing the down low in full drag with my prick in a splinter made of two twigs from an old fruitless mulberry tree had popped its nut in a cry of hallelujah
The last time love in me found a safe harbor to propagate its meaning I was caught sucking the tail end of a bum on the run for the rape of his son
The last time that love demanded money for its service done I had to rob the bank of my heart to pay the price of one night of joy
The last time that love held hostage my desires I sold my sperms to the highest biter who demanded that I cum in a jar in a tiny room full of hairless Asian boys playing with their interracial toys
The last time that love disrobed me I was a shame of my own nudity, it frightens me to be so bare with my graying pubic hair course and the dark rough tone of my skin
The last time love made me a prisoner my escape was betrayed by a kiss and a kiss did steal the breath from my lips and a kiss did wound the giving nature of my hands
The last time that love tried to school me I was dumb founded by its lessons of the common love for the common good fought for by the priest that molest the boy doing Gods business in the church of the profaned heart.
Is moving down a downtown street past the library celebrating the birthday of TS Eliot
And the population is gathered with their children’s hands full of balloons
The nuclear bombs will bloom
The napalm will fly to bar-b-q the flesh of men and pets that aligned themselves with them
The missiles are aimed at the eye of a dragonfly
The doom day parade is only for human
Although it will change everything that commands man, it will kill trees as a happenstance
But the bees take no notice as if they can do without man, they go about their business as it regards flower
Look mom! There’s a bomb, can I ride it?
The doom day parade is full of high school bands
Playing the music of the last man to stand
Look mom! The generals in their uniform, can I ware one, can I!
The little boys cry out to be apart of the festive deeds
The doom day parade is moving through history
It is our story of the final destruction writ by the war mongrels
The doom day parade is coming down your neighborhoods; tanks, bombers and new M-16s gleam in the sunlight
Look mom a machineguns, can I have one, can I!
The children cry with excitement in their eyes
The doom day parade is populated with clowns with large over size shoes, a large red nose and baggy cloths
They are handing out claymores shaped candy, rocket launcher water guns and plastic G I Joes to the children of the parade goers
The last time love slapped me then wrapped me in its arms
I was about to cum, but there was none to hum the sensual delight of taunt flesh tight and dark beyond the tan of lighter men
The last time love pushed me over the edge I was repeating what I thought that I heard about two being one in the heat caught beneath the bed spread where the stain in the sheet looked like the continent of Africa
The last time love ran me down I was playing the down low in full drag with my prick in a splinter made of two twigs from an old fruitless mulberry tree had popped its nut in a cry of hallelujah
The last time love in me found a safe harbor to propagate its meaning I was caught sucking the tail end of a bum on the run for the rape of his son
The last time that love demanded money for its service done I had to rob the bank of my heart to pay the price of one night of joy
The last time that love held hostage my desires I sold my sperms to the highest biter who demanded that I cum in a jar in a tiny room full of hairless Asian boys playing with their interracial toys
The last time that love disrobed me I was a shame of my own nudity, it frightens me to be so bare with my graying pubic hair course and the dark rough tone of my skin
The last time love made me a prisoner my escape was betrayed by a kiss and a kiss did steal the breath from my lips and a kiss did wound the giving nature of my hands
The last time that love tried to school me I was dumb founded by its lessons of the common love for the common good fought for by the priest that molest the boy doing Gods business in the church of the profaned heart.
A Souvenir
Bring what you have
to the edge of our bed;
your hands filled with stones
and shells- a souvenir.
I have no place
in the natural world,
the world you struggle to
design. See, there are no roots
to grasp the soil, no vertical
rows of blooming vine. Perhaps
I am the fallow field, quiet, cold
and empty. And of my soul, memento
of the passing years, what glory
will it grow, when it is worked
and tilled and planted?
to the edge of our bed;
your hands filled with stones
and shells- a souvenir.
I have no place
in the natural world,
the world you struggle to
design. See, there are no roots
to grasp the soil, no vertical
rows of blooming vine. Perhaps
I am the fallow field, quiet, cold
and empty. And of my soul, memento
of the passing years, what glory
will it grow, when it is worked
and tilled and planted?
3 noviembre 2008
darkness begins a Monday
out of it fell the frost
on plants and objects real
or human-made why curse
the white sheet on your wind
shield because your ancestors
moved about and chose or not
to settle in this wondrous
place both très chaud et très
froid—here comes winter
the cave of our local history
twice visited for work today
still didn’t look or feel
like home where i should be
winds off the bay of fundy
shook the truck for many hours
as we dismantled recent acquisitions
and hauled them away to storage
limbo before i—dressed in black—
refuled the truck with irving
processed prehuman sea creatures
and my right hand exudes diesel
sun ring (earlier) twice as wide
as divided highway danish beer
and deep sea scallops await me
out of it fell the frost
on plants and objects real
or human-made why curse
the white sheet on your wind
shield because your ancestors
moved about and chose or not
to settle in this wondrous
place both très chaud et très
froid—here comes winter
the cave of our local history
twice visited for work today
still didn’t look or feel
like home where i should be
winds off the bay of fundy
shook the truck for many hours
as we dismantled recent acquisitions
and hauled them away to storage
limbo before i—dressed in black—
refuled the truck with irving
processed prehuman sea creatures
and my right hand exudes diesel
sun ring (earlier) twice as wide
as divided highway danish beer
and deep sea scallops await me
Roach Whisperer
counterinsurgency forth
lungfish answering
stoop · relish prayer wisp anthem island
sundering
brackish agonist wetwork inkhorn accent
my affable boil
crackling straw
shadows sluice out infirm Ogpu afterbirth
this verse twist about '
============================================================
'two'hobos walking after the sun
cooking on their hot plate
a friend and me
in eternity
in eternity
2008/10/03
so button
you will be mouth (? I dont get this at duffy _ Who will be 'mouth?')against river as silent teeth peeve its true switchback
there are narrative slaves at this tent
saddened by a truer road
its boxed in lathe not a knight's
way but one weathered by owls and geese
(I don't like this at all but it's okay. not really up to your personages)
'Shes come to the bed . She s stayed there. Her and here was. It to her funsome . Not ' etcetera
You are very kind to send me this as I was wrought up and had nothing . Anyhow, someone said you are filthy rich so how can you whatever you pretend to be, write about bums, hobos,vagabonds, tramps, and what not?
I earn 32,000 in 8 months, for you that's spending money! I mean, like , that's what you play with , right?
__________________________________
====================================
It Was The Last Thing That I Wanted To Do
It was the last thing that I wanted to do
To do the day as if it was a man in need of sex
It was the last thing that I wanted to do
To do the woman as if she was a man
It was the last thing that I wanted to do
To do the child as if it was a man
It was the last thing that I wanted to do
To do the dog as if it was a man
It was the last thing that I wanted to do
To do the silver maple as if it was an individual
It was the last thing that I wanted to do
To do the sun as if it was a God
It was the last thing that I wanted to do
To do the moon as if it had its own light
It was the last thing that I wanted to do
To do the stars as if they have life.
To do the day as if it was a man in need of sex
It was the last thing that I wanted to do
To do the woman as if she was a man
It was the last thing that I wanted to do
To do the child as if it was a man
It was the last thing that I wanted to do
To do the dog as if it was a man
It was the last thing that I wanted to do
To do the silver maple as if it was an individual
It was the last thing that I wanted to do
To do the sun as if it was a God
It was the last thing that I wanted to do
To do the moon as if it had its own light
It was the last thing that I wanted to do
To do the stars as if they have life.
fanzine, where is thy sting? online
the cabbage is only money, but connotation
draws more sustenance out of
thin grey vocabularies than a rant
coming through on shortwave or boborygmoid
channels. it’s a screen of dollars & cents.
always behind the technological 8-ball,
you used to tell me. banish my fears
with a wave of your telescope. and another
duck down the dark promised alley,
into a still darker place—that sign tells you
where to go (“they make it nice for us”),
washing your palms with light and handing
you a bottle of new experience. they’ve got
it made. they’ve made it for us to get.
a tusk spikes like sound of framing its own
understatement. now, as it starts raining,
as it does every day, every purpose
shown like lightning across the form of space…
choked down in a rage. slapped upside
the head with calm. they tell you their lies
in persuasive rhythms. tonic lulling. “that’s
just so unacceptable—how can you pass
this off, this kinda hokey spondee-driven
shallow text? this weak talk sinks all boats
the same. this drink toughens the last pause
with a dribble and a praise. drown much
lately?” “it has a beat, honey,
but it’s not dance music.”
for cliff (the slavedriver!) i love ya
kerbock, seeing more than the artist saw, easy enough to make
it actual, this is not a painting,
self-portrait badge, a red circle
with nothing in it, this is refer,
what’s your insect, question
postage, siamese twin erotica,
naka beyond, emphasis on the amp,
do you recognize the fruit,
certain things, ye ole eye lamp,
a chance for data to flow,
grown-ups and grown-downs,
this text needs to be set free,
what is all this junk, comprun,
miss peek peetes keens, sixteen
hundred, the generic term for
q-tip, toupee ham, blandname,
tibed, the eskimo car, oneiros,
rough eye know, eye own, bug
fighting, dodgery chryslery,
gorgos, permanent blue sky,
raise cotillion, blithesome,
earning details, handing
paper from person to person,
actually pay your own bills,
shop til you puke, can’t even
do long division anymore,
the beer is gone but the
label remains, ununiversal,
aphesis, telanglectasia, the
sea turns to concrete,
cromlech, readograph, flashe,
emerged in the heyday of
conceptualism,
glasstext
Trust Me
Trust me, when vengeance finds thee out.
All this shall nothing avail thee with out your trust.
In manhood’s vigor I will bring thee
Safely through those leagues of water
That has magnified the seas and won for thee
The blessing that pledge to save thee.
Your requests of a love that last forever and
Your assault of passion shall come near me
To over take me with a province of its own
Now, as then besiege me with your cries for forgiveness.
Be not afraid to touch the prophet’s bones.
The dead men are wise no more toward the prize
That last forever, neither rich in poverty of livelihood
Nor flush with flesh.
Faith wait for you calmly and lovingly to claim your gift.
Haste all this to your heart surely as dead dreams come from an over wrought brain that fight to make thee insane.
Content thyself with the mercy hard won by poets as protectors of the human spirit and Nature as the one true Godhead of the living and the dead for She surely rule all that can be said by the well fed who fill their heads with the knowledge of the dead.
Be you content with the make of your bone, long shall you live with it and wish you no more to be like that man fair of face or this man rich in coins for all thee are made up of the self that thee carry about like no other.
Nature is thy mother, thy maker, thy provider of substance to feed thy muscle and make thee mindful of the working of the Gods, have none before her she is the knowable deity before your eyes, easy to spy, thou can not separate thy self from the bold bounty of her body for all there is to be known is by her precept.
All this shall nothing avail thee with out your trust.
In manhood’s vigor I will bring thee
Safely through those leagues of water
That has magnified the seas and won for thee
The blessing that pledge to save thee.
Your requests of a love that last forever and
Your assault of passion shall come near me
To over take me with a province of its own
Now, as then besiege me with your cries for forgiveness.
Be not afraid to touch the prophet’s bones.
The dead men are wise no more toward the prize
That last forever, neither rich in poverty of livelihood
Nor flush with flesh.
Faith wait for you calmly and lovingly to claim your gift.
Haste all this to your heart surely as dead dreams come from an over wrought brain that fight to make thee insane.
Content thyself with the mercy hard won by poets as protectors of the human spirit and Nature as the one true Godhead of the living and the dead for She surely rule all that can be said by the well fed who fill their heads with the knowledge of the dead.
Be you content with the make of your bone, long shall you live with it and wish you no more to be like that man fair of face or this man rich in coins for all thee are made up of the self that thee carry about like no other.
Nature is thy mother, thy maker, thy provider of substance to feed thy muscle and make thee mindful of the working of the Gods, have none before her she is the knowable deity before your eyes, easy to spy, thou can not separate thy self from the bold bounty of her body for all there is to be known is by her precept.
Of Morning, Distant
To be this night,
dark garden of the trees
and stars, this sadness webbed,
a fragile gauze shrinking
in the dying shadows.
Of morning, distant
arc of blue and gold
turns wildly silver-white
as hair, as ice, as wings.
With longing, ripe
and amber as the moon-
to live; shattered as a ray
of light- to die filled
with fire, tears and blood.
dark garden of the trees
and stars, this sadness webbed,
a fragile gauze shrinking
in the dying shadows.
Of morning, distant
arc of blue and gold
turns wildly silver-white
as hair, as ice, as wings.
With longing, ripe
and amber as the moon-
to live; shattered as a ray
of light- to die filled
with fire, tears and blood.
Down Fell I, Face to Earth
Down fell I, face to earth
And with great rejoicing among the people a deadly griping it was that took me with cruel torment that tore off my wings and burnt them in the town square.
A great fire roared up to light the heavens and by that light I saw for the first time the faces of my enemies.
My enemies have gathered together and they boast of their strength to overcome me, to bring me lower then the hearts of human that must muck about on earth.
They would have in the heart of the city my corpse to lie like dung on the ground for the passer-by to wonder just what was my crime.
While the battles were afoot news came that the speed of my demise was at hand but I could not let it be so.
I mustered my strength with the wisdom of my muscles behind me and called for a treaty of alliance at large.
Fain would my confederates and friends enroll in my aid still I took the upper hand by speed of being a man of constraining power who love for the battler is legendary for I have fought in the company of uncircumcised children who cheered for my conquest.
The angels that rebel against me care not to doubt that I have been successful against the suicidal act that they wish to use to beat me down, they are powerless to defeat my spirit, my will to live as one in the dark skin of a man.
I fight them to know my father’s sins, by it am I a guilty man but his sins has strengthen my resolve to win for man a place in the heart of the natural God of stone and bark, wind and fire, water and air, such are my cares.
Do not take pity on me nor call me brave as one who battles the angels.
I will bring my enemies low; bring them to nothing, bring them to know me as I go victorious over the bodies of my foes.
The angels have God on their side but I need no such deity as I have nature as my aid, she will defeat their flesh and I shall school their spirits with defeat.
And with great rejoicing among the people a deadly griping it was that took me with cruel torment that tore off my wings and burnt them in the town square.
A great fire roared up to light the heavens and by that light I saw for the first time the faces of my enemies.
My enemies have gathered together and they boast of their strength to overcome me, to bring me lower then the hearts of human that must muck about on earth.
They would have in the heart of the city my corpse to lie like dung on the ground for the passer-by to wonder just what was my crime.
While the battles were afoot news came that the speed of my demise was at hand but I could not let it be so.
I mustered my strength with the wisdom of my muscles behind me and called for a treaty of alliance at large.
Fain would my confederates and friends enroll in my aid still I took the upper hand by speed of being a man of constraining power who love for the battler is legendary for I have fought in the company of uncircumcised children who cheered for my conquest.
The angels that rebel against me care not to doubt that I have been successful against the suicidal act that they wish to use to beat me down, they are powerless to defeat my spirit, my will to live as one in the dark skin of a man.
I fight them to know my father’s sins, by it am I a guilty man but his sins has strengthen my resolve to win for man a place in the heart of the natural God of stone and bark, wind and fire, water and air, such are my cares.
Do not take pity on me nor call me brave as one who battles the angels.
I will bring my enemies low; bring them to nothing, bring them to know me as I go victorious over the bodies of my foes.
The angels have God on their side but I need no such deity as I have nature as my aid, she will defeat their flesh and I shall school their spirits with defeat.
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