these words are diseased

the very notion that
prior to their writing
they existed as winged
thoughts around the
crotch of said Eve in
place known as Garden
and when whispered
during sex these words
sprang to life or at least
to the uncon
scious state of awareness

would be too good to be
true, instead I imagine
no god at all but what al
ready lurks in the shadows
at night, leaps from the
raging fire in stone circles

words are a veil to protect
like the blue sky in daytime

allowing us favor to live at all
on this spinning question
mark we call 'earth'.


s - a - m
3/18/05

191 then

What is it , diaphanous disappointment  met you __me
at the veiled tent we spoke,

  

    I am these "disgusting"
"dirty" voices  denial    speak, spoked margined
by margin "My name is Blandine" "I never spoke English ..." 'How shall' we hollow, my hooligan, baleen,  down "by the river" 'everything' is in quotes, especially everything which isn't . be cause the cause has been before and has been was be and been, have been will travel, as have faith  did, there in its myrtle bush, and so we play with the shepherds' drum and lute, avoided traffic and stones  made it over the lethal street, roaring with its dinosaurs, lions and elephants, not circus animal varieties 



/

santy Klaus shot out of the chimney!

willy nilly no direction quixotically
the passage of which implodes diplomatically
the colour in my hair anymore
the bass the beat the floor
the baby and the bath water
tossed backwards through the air, a door.

burrn naap prawn naap bruuuuuuum pa bum bum
temporal stasis throw the bone a dog.


mercy, it's AmeriKan Hegemony, what a sweetie!

borges and me

across the street the old librarian
recognized me
and so stopped to pass a bit of time
only he didn’t look like
the writer but instead looked like me

and how he didn’t say i looked like him
and he said/ yes many years ago something
like this had happened to him in buenos aires
only the i there was older while the i here
was younger and now the i know no longer
remembers which i that writes/reads
and the i that wanders

and so i bade him a good day
that this happened on a sunny ordinary day
sacramento ca tho i don’t know what i
is now writing this page

Died on a Friday

I've seen you for the last time, I know this, and in the instant I knew
I swore you would not leave me that way
Without acknowledgement
Without a gift
So you could say that this new body I'm wearing
Every day this new skin I step into
I've made it your gift
And the old one shed
Like Eustace peeling off the dragon's skin
Well he had help
The lion put his velvet paws his divine claws
To the boy's heart and let her rip
Alone, I have only that Outsider Knowledge
Of the man you were becoming
And dance tunes from our loving days
Once I cut my hair too short
Because I thought you'd like it
See, even with our talk we weren't any better than anyone
Now there is more, and less
I am swimming-pool clean, emerging
And just what it is I am
Has a new host
And new eyes, think of it
The eyes you kissed them twelve years gone they're new
All this without you
Although I do thank you
And goodbye

Rhyme Sleep Ode _ tte's Pet_ting

that was the splash




Yes, Murther was "called" traditional 'curse' was
not rhymed
Canadian dashboard was silver fish in your face/
Some said she wife won Ward . Not so, when you give your death rays a pill.
Who killed the P.D. James Adam of the waitress's soft ass?
her long down ass suit? Ask yer opin ion not onion bunion PauL? pilgrim suit.
When you graze your cowpasture?
When you masturbate? will your sleaze trickle the past?
________________________________________

reading Wordsworth makes me lonely__the Borderersthat is, so I trundle to P.D. James instead,wonderingwhy the murderer multiplieswhat sleep has vanishedthe soul breedinghatred before light and versemy old fashioned song by the seablindness of salt spatteredlumbering selfhood a once not lumberdashed by the Aves and Mariasof the Latin massnow the first cursecarries time and all its work by the sidea box flat in spacecovering the woods a canvasof drift wood and slatsthe murderer playshide and seeknot fey like my love

for the uncomely young womanwhose kisses I long forfive minutes afterwhose arms I waitfortelling me her writing is no goodbut bloodis thicker than waterand cocks grow coldcunts on the other hand,get boldlike gloves grabbing you towards deathbidden suddenly by a movebreathing backward a freaklike the young baby sitter at their housethis summerseeking advicenotCanadian poetry of the true north strong and freebut Greek like the smooth godssmooth foreheadscunts get bold and grab you incocks reject you outwardpraising the works of buildingparsed by cunts the negative

look linetwisting the side of image receptionnot mattered by the conatea deacon is spentinwarda cone glidingnot wordsagainst my spent toysandthe breath the behemoththat hangs between themcold vellum of skin skull and damp__________

____________________________________


The End







____________





See it is all vers_Ions


as your body envelope
Elope

Come now praise your side
go then spear your muscles
your body is blind


exhaust_ion

not the pedant hiden in wood


_ it will bilk




______________________


Mozart Speaks
Raise your ass to your mouth,

... ah, my ass burns like fire,

but what can be the meaning of that? Perhaps a turd wants

to come out ... Yes, yes, turd,

I know you, I see you, I feel you.

What is this?__ is such a thing
possible?



----



___the postmark was wet. With the assline__ creases.