All alone at last in a city
of nude people, you painted
cubist buttocks from your keyhole perch.
No one knew what you were up to
in Lillian's old house
which you decorated real fancy
with things from San Diego.
No one knew they was naked.
But the kids, we knew
where all the fig leaves grew,
we built a club there.
Had to pass initiation and memorize
the creed: No Foreigners Allowed.
The rest we turned to salt.
Pea Soup
"But Matt, Nobius isn't real. He's only in your head."
-Pea Soup-
remains The question
all Poets tempt:
Am I...
well written?
had the feeling
(I'm going to die today.)
--Nobius Black
-Pea Soup-
remains The question
all Poets tempt:
Am I...
well written?
had the feeling
(I'm going to die today.)
--Nobius Black
Winter
Each time I pull the quilt over me
it’s like slipping within a question mark
that hangs over my bed
prodding the false warmth
with which I sleep this cold winter.
But I know nothing of winter.
I see it only in news clippings of cold waves
or in the shivering of a mendicant
pressed against my car’s window
or in the vaporous breath of an illicit lover
exhaled across my married face.
it’s like slipping within a question mark
that hangs over my bed
prodding the false warmth
with which I sleep this cold winter.
But I know nothing of winter.
I see it only in news clippings of cold waves
or in the shivering of a mendicant
pressed against my car’s window
or in the vaporous breath of an illicit lover
exhaled across my married face.
Dan Husain
cOMORBIDITY-1
Word and Text
(Jan 30/06)
The mind, the mind’s eye, creates, or rather recreates, the written word, the word(s) on the page, or screen or template. Perhaps not recreate, but create for the first time, the one and only time, the time of the reading of the written word on the page or screen or template. A template can be whatever one wishes, a page, a leaf, a computer screen, a blank slate, a tabala rasa. The words, their meanings and connections to us, the reader, are there long before the ink, or laser, scribes them onto the page, the screen or the template. They exist independent of their being there, anywhere, on page, screen or template. The eye, the mind’s eye, brings with it, carries in the satchel of it’s ‘this’, whatever is to be transcribed, brought to or into the written word(s) on the page, the screen or the template. Nothing exists, nothing is there on the page, nothing but what we, the mind’s eye, bring to the page, the word, the text, the screen image or template. Unconscious wishes and fantasies transcribed for the first, second, millionth time onto the page, the blank page, template or screen, rebuses from the previous day, week, hundred years. Images, both faint and aglow, of things and events and past memories and traumas, happy times, sad times, times that have yet to be or will be.
The mind, the mind’s eye, creates, or rather recreates, the written word, the word(s) on the page, or screen or template. Perhaps not recreate, but create for the first time, the one and only time, the time of the reading of the written word on the page or screen or template. A template can be whatever one wishes, a page, a leaf, a computer screen, a blank slate, a tabala rasa. The words, their meanings and connections to us, the reader, are there long before the ink, or laser, scribes them onto the page, the screen or the template. They exist independent of their being there, anywhere, on page, screen or template. The eye, the mind’s eye, brings with it, carries in the satchel of it’s ‘this’, whatever is to be transcribed, brought to or into the written word(s) on the page, the screen or the template. Nothing exists, nothing is there on the page, nothing but what we, the mind’s eye, bring to the page, the word, the text, the screen image or template. Unconscious wishes and fantasies transcribed for the first, second, millionth time onto the page, the blank page, template or screen, rebuses from the previous day, week, hundred years. Images, both faint and aglow, of things and events and past memories and traumas, happy times, sad times, times that have yet to be or will be.
The written word, the text, does not exist outside the transcription of the word(s), the words and text into the ‘this’, the ‘this is me’, the mind’s eye. Each reading, each new reading, is the first, the one reading, the only reading. In this manner there is no division, no difference between deconstruction and reconstruction, they are one side of the same coin, a one-dimensional coin, a flat tropism, a singularity of text, word, meaning and reading, the ‘what is read’. Each word, sentence, hieroglyphic, trope, meaning, inscription, are the first, the one, the first reading, meaning, trope, the word as whiteness and plane. There is no difference between the whiteness of the page, or screen, or template, and the word inscribed, or brought to, carried into, the whiteness, the wordless plane. As suggested in a previous posting, there is no present, a now, an ‘in the moment’, but only a past, a ‘was once’, a future projected from the lamp of the past, projected onto the blank whiteness of the screen, the text, the word, the first word(s). The future in the past tense, the moment, the now, the present, a lacuna, a blank white page yet to be filled, yet to be transcribed from memory.
you
bleed
the
blood
of angels
yet
in
your
heart
of hate
typewriters
by i still preefer typewriters
[you but, don't you?]
yes?
[no]yea
why
sexier
not phony
funny word coming from you, your lips
really? i thought candour was nt
an aspect of the writer's being?
that lying was the name of the game.
lies about love
about agreements about gender
sex, disease, relations, money,
bodies, gender, connecting, honest
ee & writing?
Look firstlin' darling come to bed.
i have her
with me.________
[you but, don't you?]
yes?
[no]yea
why
sexier
not phony
funny word coming from you, your lips
really? i thought candour was nt
an aspect of the writer's being?
that lying was the name of the game.
lies about love
about agreements about gender
sex, disease, relations, money,
bodies, gender, connecting, honest
ee & writing?
Look firstlin' darling come to bed.
i have her
with me.________
Ghosts in the City
Ghosts dance in the city
There, round the corner
Where we have forgotten to look,
In the dust that swirls up toward the jaundiced sun
In the pale horror of pre-dawn,
Like prayers in many voices offering up their hate
Ghosts dance
Like words that have been forgotten and discarded
In the night's debris
With dreams and tears.
Ghosts dance.
Ghosts of a moment and a thousand years,
Ghosts of the future that has waned
And yesterdays we are yet to weave
Ghosts dance
And in the silence that shrouds the air
Dead men sigh
Ghosts dance
Singing threnodies for the day
That will collapse into twilight.
And then it will be night.
Ghosts dance.
There, round the corner
Where we have forgotten to look,
In the dust that swirls up toward the jaundiced sun
In the pale horror of pre-dawn,
Like prayers in many voices offering up their hate
Ghosts dance
Like words that have been forgotten and discarded
In the night's debris
With dreams and tears.
Ghosts dance.
Ghosts of a moment and a thousand years,
Ghosts of the future that has waned
And yesterdays we are yet to weave
Ghosts dance
And in the silence that shrouds the air
Dead men sigh
Ghosts dance
Singing threnodies for the day
That will collapse into twilight.
And then it will be night.
Ghosts dance.
Mahdi Starbucks
Diplodocus wisp · spurting sloop
go addict to · scurvy luck
Tsar twinkling wisp · is spiral assay
sports luck · crisp story
Wisp inch against · is slowly pools
go apart again · gossip wasp
Ad adorn wisp · scour atomic
stool · go as across dust
Crass avion · dying all
dusk scoot · ikon still
Assailing dark crown · stony twist
wispy ink skiff · flapjack disk
Snug again · swarf wisp
assign spoor · millions ask
go addict to · scurvy luck
Tsar twinkling wisp · is spiral assay
sports luck · crisp story
Wisp inch against · is slowly pools
go apart again · gossip wasp
Ad adorn wisp · scour atomic
stool · go as across dust
Crass avion · dying all
dusk scoot · ikon still
Assailing dark crown · stony twist
wispy ink skiff · flapjack disk
Snug again · swarf wisp
assign spoor · millions ask
all the thoughts in my head at the moment
pink licorice. apple brandy. printer delicacy explosion. shattered Chestnut shop glass. two hurt. Safron Foer. got his name right? never write what. you wrote to the lady. who wished to kill you with a crowbar. that is terrible. the sun is a sun is a sun is a sun. i will lift. 200 lbs. again. of radishes? of monastatic ratios. of Macy's perfume. hitchhiking. sample swatch. a swab. eggs scrambled with emblems. the diner chair. hickory. rocked by. button-down. IEDs
Recog Photog
Revised:
The Ballad of Recognizance Photography
The Naco whores existed
For the Marines, down past San Jose.
The Jar Heads took on Dos Equis,
Mescal and the local clientele
From their own US Marine Corp
Barracks, cribs at the foot
Of Mount Fiji without snow.
At the Blue Moon, little lamps
Burned inside plaster walls,
Novenas offered between
Lupita's legs, prayerful
Adjusting to the howls
Of border dogs, skinny
Prowling. A very specific
Type of Dog.
The Virgin, Our Lady of Guadalupe,
Our Lady of Tortilla came down
The belt with a hard-pressed face
Tasted good, a blanket
For the stringy tortoise
You could purchase
In a stew, or a cat
Until they closed those joints down.
We walked through the debris
Of Army love, Sonora Baseball Love
With an Ansel Adams look=a=like,
Nothing grateful to the zone system
Like six choclate legs
and three pearly smiles.
The Three Graces Lolita was told.
Just point and shoot,
point and shoot,
point and shoot.
Now, take off your clothes
and look like a Venus.
***And hey Dick, I don't revise like you do! I just wing it sometimes and use a fallible computer which tends to lose my life every three months or so...which it has done again but somewhere it will be there...I make sure of it. At least some of this survives....my baggage was robbed on my trip back you know? I lost all my copies of the Yellow Knife School anthology...argh AND I lost everything I wrote when I was knee high to a grasshopper hahahaha but who cares. British Airways compensated me $290.
Argh. They finally asked me what the real value of my teenage juvenalia bullshit was worth and I answered, "nevermind." Just give me the amount for the Hanes Her Way panties. Tennis shortie.
hahahah
Thanks. You are great.
***An excerpt CD from a letter to Dick Bakken. Funny eh?
The Ballad of Recognizance Photography
The Naco whores existed
For the Marines, down past San Jose.
The Jar Heads took on Dos Equis,
Mescal and the local clientele
From their own US Marine Corp
Barracks, cribs at the foot
Of Mount Fiji without snow.
At the Blue Moon, little lamps
Burned inside plaster walls,
Novenas offered between
Lupita's legs, prayerful
Adjusting to the howls
Of border dogs, skinny
Prowling. A very specific
Type of Dog.
The Virgin, Our Lady of Guadalupe,
Our Lady of Tortilla came down
The belt with a hard-pressed face
Tasted good, a blanket
For the stringy tortoise
You could purchase
In a stew, or a cat
Until they closed those joints down.
We walked through the debris
Of Army love, Sonora Baseball Love
With an Ansel Adams look=a=like,
Nothing grateful to the zone system
Like six choclate legs
and three pearly smiles.
The Three Graces Lolita was told.
Just point and shoot,
point and shoot,
point and shoot.
Now, take off your clothes
and look like a Venus.
***And hey Dick, I don't revise like you do! I just wing it sometimes and use a fallible computer which tends to lose my life every three months or so...which it has done again but somewhere it will be there...I make sure of it. At least some of this survives....my baggage was robbed on my trip back you know? I lost all my copies of the Yellow Knife School anthology...argh AND I lost everything I wrote when I was knee high to a grasshopper hahahaha but who cares. British Airways compensated me $290.
Argh. They finally asked me what the real value of my teenage juvenalia bullshit was worth and I answered, "nevermind." Just give me the amount for the Hanes Her Way panties. Tennis shortie.
hahahah
Thanks. You are great.
***An excerpt CD from a letter to Dick Bakken. Funny eh?
Incremental Europe
after directed in the just direction
the brutish hung towards the high today
we discussed how the devil came from Kansas
Where standards went I cannot say
however I am not a predicator
and I try to remain that the way
equitable monkey on my posterior part
during a sure time says here it knows very perfectly
he is not some friend to me and
I am no humble ballerina
this is not some necessity of baffler and
tightening does not pray for silver-plated paper
when I try to sell cheese to you
I cannot signal the poetesses
my brother would improve the beginning
to pray for the sins of those who have left
one approximately going
is just a dark cloud over me
I have not come from Kansas
do not forget the grazing cook
put your speed in the fire
extend your balls to the ground
your head to desire is a woman
who goes towards the bottom
it was said roughly towards the high
all the way and going outside
Put tinges to that high wall
that is not your country
close mass medium that defies
rather than push palaces for falling
wireless liberations invite Europe
you decide calling all media
the brutish hung towards the high today
we discussed how the devil came from Kansas
Where standards went I cannot say
however I am not a predicator
and I try to remain that the way
equitable monkey on my posterior part
during a sure time says here it knows very perfectly
he is not some friend to me and
I am no humble ballerina
this is not some necessity of baffler and
tightening does not pray for silver-plated paper
when I try to sell cheese to you
I cannot signal the poetesses
my brother would improve the beginning
to pray for the sins of those who have left
one approximately going
is just a dark cloud over me
I have not come from Kansas
do not forget the grazing cook
put your speed in the fire
extend your balls to the ground
your head to desire is a woman
who goes towards the bottom
it was said roughly towards the high
all the way and going outside
Put tinges to that high wall
that is not your country
close mass medium that defies
rather than push palaces for falling
wireless liberations invite Europe
you decide calling all media
tecate
the pink apple
of her red cunt
has been integrated
one more tecate no bed
no one more tecate
middle finger looking
for
delicious
apple
nose sniffing
for delicious'
delicious
one more tecate
one more
tecate
in fact i think
i'll drink
a 69 pack
listening
to pere ubu's
"non-alignment pact"
maybe
this wasn't
such a good idea
of her red cunt
has been integrated
one more tecate no bed
no one more tecate
middle finger looking
for
delicious
apple
nose sniffing
for delicious'
delicious
one more tecate
one more
tecate
in fact i think
i'll drink
a 69 pack
listening
to pere ubu's
"non-alignment pact"
maybe
this wasn't
such a good idea
Hanifa
he is the cloaked stranger, he walks around
with a Big Gulp cup full of souls.
wind picks up, and is chilly.
a long time ago, we toasted
clear glasses of stained words. my Love,
Belief curled
a sprawled banana peel
on the ground.
it was not until I
took a bite out of the bread
it crumbled, cleaned the earth,
exhaled dust from
ribs wide as a cathedral.
light through mosaic windows,
crayon lines drawn
by a child. then why couldn’t I see
wasn’t I Mary Magdalene?
but when I saw, it was
I looked
through foggy eyes.
take and receive, purgatory groans
hungry for your body.
what is that blood?
it really is vintage, quenching thirst.
raise your chalice!
offer silent sips…
gargoyles and jackals,
she refused to believe.
that Faith, it bent into shape
skinned to the flesh by someone’s hands;
Faith curled
a sprawled banana peel
on the ground.
but i knelt and picked up
what i found.
with a Big Gulp cup full of souls.
wind picks up, and is chilly.
a long time ago, we toasted
clear glasses of stained words. my Love,
Belief curled
a sprawled banana peel
on the ground.
it was not until I
took a bite out of the bread
it crumbled, cleaned the earth,
exhaled dust from
ribs wide as a cathedral.
light through mosaic windows,
crayon lines drawn
by a child. then why couldn’t I see
wasn’t I Mary Magdalene?
but when I saw, it was
I looked
through foggy eyes.
take and receive, purgatory groans
hungry for your body.
what is that blood?
it really is vintage, quenching thirst.
raise your chalice!
offer silent sips…
gargoyles and jackals,
she refused to believe.
that Faith, it bent into shape
skinned to the flesh by someone’s hands;
Faith curled
a sprawled banana peel
on the ground.
but i knelt and picked up
what i found.
tHE uCS.
Two Teenagers Taking About Freud
(Dec 29/05)
I’m all jammed up; fucking dreams are kicking the shit outta me. Latent or manifest? I dunno, the first one I think. Well of course the latent shit’s always the worse, it’s the shit that’s never quite the way it is, but seems like it is. Maybe I’m condensed, or displacing one thing for the other. Could be. And that sublimation shit, it’s a real kicker, always pointing you in the wrong direction, just when you figure you got it all figured out, and shit. Yeah, once I sublimated a dog’s asshole for my mom’s tits. Figure that, fuck, way too fucking weird, thinking your mom’s tits are a dog’s asshole and all. That’s nothing, once I thought my dad’s cock was one a those battleship guns, the big fuckers with the long, narrow barrels. Fuck, man, you must a been jammed like fucking ninety. That French fucker, what’s his name? Lacan. Yeah, he said that the unconscious is structured like a language, something to do with signifiers and signifieds. Tame shit, man, when you think of Freud’s concept of the unconscious as a storehouse of repressed early childhood memories, traumas and shit. Yeah, but it’s all understood, or interpreted, through language, right? Yeah, so. Well then, language, then, wouldn’t ya think, is the true unconscious, the only way we have to understand, interpret all that shit. A fucking baby can’t fucking speak, for fuck sake. All it can do is roll it’s fucking eyes and make stupid fucking faces. And shit all the time. Yeah, that too. But remember what Freud said about shit, it’s a representation of money or power, or some shit like that. You can either shit the fucker out, or hold it in. Meaning? Meaning, even when you’re a little fucking baby, you got control over things. Yeah, I suppose. Fucking a you do. I remember my mom haven to pull a shit outta my fucking asshole, when I was four or five or something. Fucker just wouldn’t come the fuck out, not on it’s own anyways. Needed a little prodding, did it? Fucking a it did. I bet you’d still like it if someone’d pull a shit outta your asshole, your sister or that chick with the flabby ass. And maybe you’re fucking mom? Fuck, man, she’d do it just for the fucking fun a it, for fuck sake. Fuck, man, now you got me thinking about your mom all naked and shit, her tits like a dog’s asshole, for fuck sake. That sublimation’s some weird fucking shit, man. Weirder than shit, man, way weirder than a dog’s tits being your mom’s asshole, and shit.
I’m all jammed up; fucking dreams are kicking the shit outta me. Latent or manifest? I dunno, the first one I think. Well of course the latent shit’s always the worse, it’s the shit that’s never quite the way it is, but seems like it is. Maybe I’m condensed, or displacing one thing for the other. Could be. And that sublimation shit, it’s a real kicker, always pointing you in the wrong direction, just when you figure you got it all figured out, and shit. Yeah, once I sublimated a dog’s asshole for my mom’s tits. Figure that, fuck, way too fucking weird, thinking your mom’s tits are a dog’s asshole and all. That’s nothing, once I thought my dad’s cock was one a those battleship guns, the big fuckers with the long, narrow barrels. Fuck, man, you must a been jammed like fucking ninety. That French fucker, what’s his name? Lacan. Yeah, he said that the unconscious is structured like a language, something to do with signifiers and signifieds. Tame shit, man, when you think of Freud’s concept of the unconscious as a storehouse of repressed early childhood memories, traumas and shit. Yeah, but it’s all understood, or interpreted, through language, right? Yeah, so. Well then, language, then, wouldn’t ya think, is the true unconscious, the only way we have to understand, interpret all that shit. A fucking baby can’t fucking speak, for fuck sake. All it can do is roll it’s fucking eyes and make stupid fucking faces. And shit all the time. Yeah, that too. But remember what Freud said about shit, it’s a representation of money or power, or some shit like that. You can either shit the fucker out, or hold it in. Meaning? Meaning, even when you’re a little fucking baby, you got control over things. Yeah, I suppose. Fucking a you do. I remember my mom haven to pull a shit outta my fucking asshole, when I was four or five or something. Fucker just wouldn’t come the fuck out, not on it’s own anyways. Needed a little prodding, did it? Fucking a it did. I bet you’d still like it if someone’d pull a shit outta your asshole, your sister or that chick with the flabby ass. And maybe you’re fucking mom? Fuck, man, she’d do it just for the fucking fun a it, for fuck sake. Fuck, man, now you got me thinking about your mom all naked and shit, her tits like a dog’s asshole, for fuck sake. That sublimation’s some weird fucking shit, man. Weirder than shit, man, way weirder than a dog’s tits being your mom’s asshole, and shit.
FATUDDWPPWDDUTAF
(Feb 12/06)
Fear and trembling unto death do we part. Bowels, innards, guts and viscera unto death do we part. Parting is such saccharin woe. Woe is I unto death trembling do we part. Do we part trembling in woe is me sorrow. Death bowels, innards, guts and glistering saccharin fear. Parting post death and mortem is such treacle and sweetshop sorrow and woe is neither you nor I. Sorrowful sorrow woe Noah onto ark unto covenant and roe. Ovum over easy does it unto death trembling do us part parting. Viscera, guts, innards and the largest bowel NAG till fear do we Miracle Mart. In the parking lot do we part trembling in fear of innards, bowels, guts, viscera and mopeds. Fear of trembling and part. Fear of mopeds and trembling. Fearful of death, mopeds, innards, guts, viscera and the smallest bowel trembling in disgust and saccharin woe is you not I nor not I. Nietzsche’s nag woeful and begotten to death do he did part trembling. Hobbled and flog to wobbly knees trembling unto death did he (F.N.) parting sorrowful part. Part we do death unto trembling and fear.
Fear and trembling unto death do we part. Bowels, innards, guts and viscera unto death do we part. Parting is such saccharin woe. Woe is I unto death trembling do we part. Do we part trembling in woe is me sorrow. Death bowels, innards, guts and glistering saccharin fear. Parting post death and mortem is such treacle and sweetshop sorrow and woe is neither you nor I. Sorrowful sorrow woe Noah onto ark unto covenant and roe. Ovum over easy does it unto death trembling do us part parting. Viscera, guts, innards and the largest bowel NAG till fear do we Miracle Mart. In the parking lot do we part trembling in fear of innards, bowels, guts, viscera and mopeds. Fear of trembling and part. Fear of mopeds and trembling. Fearful of death, mopeds, innards, guts, viscera and the smallest bowel trembling in disgust and saccharin woe is you not I nor not I. Nietzsche’s nag woeful and begotten to death do he did part trembling. Hobbled and flog to wobbly knees trembling unto death did he (F.N.) parting sorrowful part. Part we do death unto trembling and fear.
The Erotic Life
The Erotic Life
Should have wrote that thing down
instead of wreaking havoc about it
yet the other self says keep trying.
Once Haj Ibrahim drank the ashes
of his cigarette from his tea,
said it was good for us.
His wife came through the door
looking pale once again,
thoroughly his wife.
Oftentimes I saw them out front
peeling tobacco leaves one by one,
a group of sisters smiling.
One time the mule got loose
so I led him home by the rope,
took him apples in the afternoon.
Their children sat out on the roof
watching us through the window,
told the village how foreigners make love.
Should have wrote that thing down
instead of wreaking havoc about it
yet the other self says keep trying.
Once Haj Ibrahim drank the ashes
of his cigarette from his tea,
said it was good for us.
His wife came through the door
looking pale once again,
thoroughly his wife.
Oftentimes I saw them out front
peeling tobacco leaves one by one,
a group of sisters smiling.
One time the mule got loose
so I led him home by the rope,
took him apples in the afternoon.
Their children sat out on the roof
watching us through the window,
told the village how foreigners make love.
The Green Man
And does this false autumn give permission to false winter,
The russet leaves to remain on their branches,
The snows' return from the mountains be postponed,
And the sun blaze hottest on midwinter's day?
False in the cycles of passing enmeshed with arrival,
The champion holds the laurel and the pretender falls,
Until such season as the pretender does not,
The King is dead, long live the King.
Irascible, he was, the Bear, and mighty,
But he stands beside short men and bulks himself with hidden
towels,
Too kingly against the onslaught, too straight in the back when he
should bend as the reed,
Trumpets, drums, and the pretender was king, how false, how false.
A philandering man, a leering, rutting man, eager to complete the
oath, start the dream,
His Camelot a doubtful Camelot,
Tenacious Cromwell, our Lord Protector, gripped by an ire he
does not fully understand,
Kaplan intervenes, the left hemisphere is shattered, the cripple limps
on a time,
Wilkes Booth, seeking free speech in the theatre, he has a fine name
of freedom, he uses it,
At midwinter, when an antlered man took up stone knife and put it
across the king's throat,
Treason to say it, but we know a time (foreign for its demolition)
when the king was not king,
Transported from the old land to the new, a different orb and sceptre
has changed us,
The Green Man goes to the wilderness to die, the King is dead, long
live the King,
That pause when Anarchy began to grin
Find a backwater bar and listen sociably, chewing on chicken and
sipping at ale, to the happy recollections aired,
To any who wanted to hear,
The Bear recounts his life, the Bear brought back to life,
What deformity would this be, something that was King and is not
now?
The final, the paragon, last-punished Gaius Cassius Longinus,
Who fought on the Parthian field at an age when others still
experiment,
Winning his spurs as quaestor to Marcus Crassus,
Having no respect for the Gods, how can he respect their
representative?
My face expressing only the calmest lake,
Says Cassius: I will not be changed by Caesar's death.
Rex quondam, rexque futurus,
Our former hope to be our future hope, or the whole is specious,
Not gold, silver or brass, these sickly creations, baked of clay no
stronger than pastry,
For all is not well with Kings, as the seasons stand.
The russet leaves to remain on their branches,
The snows' return from the mountains be postponed,
And the sun blaze hottest on midwinter's day?
False in the cycles of passing enmeshed with arrival,
The champion holds the laurel and the pretender falls,
Until such season as the pretender does not,
The King is dead, long live the King.
Irascible, he was, the Bear, and mighty,
But he stands beside short men and bulks himself with hidden
towels,
Too kingly against the onslaught, too straight in the back when he
should bend as the reed,
Trumpets, drums, and the pretender was king, how false, how false.
A philandering man, a leering, rutting man, eager to complete the
oath, start the dream,
His Camelot a doubtful Camelot,
Tenacious Cromwell, our Lord Protector, gripped by an ire he
does not fully understand,
Kaplan intervenes, the left hemisphere is shattered, the cripple limps
on a time,
Wilkes Booth, seeking free speech in the theatre, he has a fine name
of freedom, he uses it,
At midwinter, when an antlered man took up stone knife and put it
across the king's throat,
Treason to say it, but we know a time (foreign for its demolition)
when the king was not king,
Transported from the old land to the new, a different orb and sceptre
has changed us,
The Green Man goes to the wilderness to die, the King is dead, long
live the King,
That pause when Anarchy began to grin
Find a backwater bar and listen sociably, chewing on chicken and
sipping at ale, to the happy recollections aired,
To any who wanted to hear,
The Bear recounts his life, the Bear brought back to life,
What deformity would this be, something that was King and is not
now?
The final, the paragon, last-punished Gaius Cassius Longinus,
Who fought on the Parthian field at an age when others still
experiment,
Winning his spurs as quaestor to Marcus Crassus,
Having no respect for the Gods, how can he respect their
representative?
My face expressing only the calmest lake,
Says Cassius: I will not be changed by Caesar's death.
Rex quondam, rexque futurus,
Our former hope to be our future hope, or the whole is specious,
Not gold, silver or brass, these sickly creations, baked of clay no
stronger than pastry,
For all is not well with Kings, as the seasons stand.
sOHPIST kNAVERY
Phantoms and Ghostbodies
(Jan 24/06)
A metaphysical world is a world of spooks and revenants. A metaphysical realm is a realm of false-judgments and inhume-notions. A metaphysical reality is a reality of inane stupidities and sophistic knavery. A metaphysical world doesn’t have a collarbone or a hip joint, nor can it balance a checkbook or breastfeed a colic baby. A world construed of phantoms and ghostbodies is a world lacking in temper, tone and originality. A metaphysician is a double-crosser and a second-story man. A metaphysician is a make-believer and a horse-thief. A metaphysical world is a world of imagination and fiction.
A metaphysical world is a world of spooks and revenants. A metaphysical realm is a realm of false-judgments and inhume-notions. A metaphysical reality is a reality of inane stupidities and sophistic knavery. A metaphysical world doesn’t have a collarbone or a hip joint, nor can it balance a checkbook or breastfeed a colic baby. A world construed of phantoms and ghostbodies is a world lacking in temper, tone and originality. A metaphysician is a double-crosser and a second-story man. A metaphysician is a make-believer and a horse-thief. A metaphysical world is a world of imagination and fiction.
A metaphysical reality is an irreality, a paper-mashie mockup of a real-reality. All metaphysics is trickery and chicanery, false-judgments and inhume-notions, inane stupidities and sophistic knavery’s. All metaphysicians are dupes and profiteers, charlatans and mountebanks, false-lucre’s and glad-raggers. Spooks and revenants don’t have toes or opposable thumbs, nor do they have substantive ideas or notions, beliefs or perceptions, original thoughts or collarbones. As I can’t balance a checkbook to save my life, it stands to reason that I, too, am a second-story man, a charlatan, a mountebank, and worst of all, a metaphysician.
Smashing the Plate
I have bludgeoned you
with the thick of my skull,
yet you remain solid in silence,
your dinner-plate face scrubbed
clean of explanations.
Not even residue remains -
your suds were evaporated
by the air of stoicism you exhale.
with the thick of my skull,
yet you remain solid in silence,
your dinner-plate face scrubbed
clean of explanations.
Not even residue remains -
your suds were evaporated
by the air of stoicism you exhale.
A Kiss Before the Crossroads - for Andrea Ryer
I remember we haven’t been to France. Paris falls into our minds with the bedroom window open and the cool autumn breeze over our bodies. Wind repeatedly bangs the door into its frame again and again, whips leaves in a rattle through the yard. We huddle closer under the covers, knit together a breath to warm our chests, my feet, and your wrist through the winter. Our hearts thump harder when we’re together. United in a word after a walk home. It doesn’t matter that we sometimes prefer the quiet, wet streets to get here. Please stop me at the crossroads, watch with me for the traffic, and kiss me before we continue on our way. I can only promise to do the same for you. I always will.
Two untitled verses
There is a misty insincerity
over the lake of your words
your laughter takes off like seagulls
sharp chirps, flapping your dreamy eyes
a dissonant note tells me
you will migrate this winter.
I talk with corroded words
languid hopes screech as they move
the wooden wheels of my desire
and I feel the cold selfishness
of your intent in the cold hands
so detached, so solitary when held.
My doe your each step
mocks my terrain of trust
you flirt with favors from them
leaping onto rocks of their attention
and yet when you hug me squeeze
I mumble, "oh love! never leave me please!"
5:15 pm; 19 March
****************
II
Who are you to me
but an excited note on phone
a casket of nervous stories
that fizz faster than meteors;
A noisy friend, I may say
petulant as a kid, pestilant as a toddler
and a tempest in the flesh
rocking my lighthouses of intention.
Why must I care so
about the unkempt promises on shore
for they are only shells of a spirit
fickle as each woman does become;
A desirable woman, I may say
tortuous as hillroads, tedious as childbirth
and an inescapable exile from self
pining for return to single simplicity.
How do I break apart
this splendour of disbelief
for facades fascinate me
ah! the illusion of feminine fidelity;
A risky lover, I may say
tasty as a temptation, fiesty as a tigress
and clawed scars full of pus
in my tattoes from togetherness.
over the lake of your words
your laughter takes off like seagulls
sharp chirps, flapping your dreamy eyes
a dissonant note tells me
you will migrate this winter.
I talk with corroded words
languid hopes screech as they move
the wooden wheels of my desire
and I feel the cold selfishness
of your intent in the cold hands
so detached, so solitary when held.
My doe your each step
mocks my terrain of trust
you flirt with favors from them
leaping onto rocks of their attention
and yet when you hug me squeeze
I mumble, "oh love! never leave me please!"
5:15 pm; 19 March
****************
II
Who are you to me
but an excited note on phone
a casket of nervous stories
that fizz faster than meteors;
A noisy friend, I may say
petulant as a kid, pestilant as a toddler
and a tempest in the flesh
rocking my lighthouses of intention.
Why must I care so
about the unkempt promises on shore
for they are only shells of a spirit
fickle as each woman does become;
A desirable woman, I may say
tortuous as hillroads, tedious as childbirth
and an inescapable exile from self
pining for return to single simplicity.
How do I break apart
this splendour of disbelief
for facades fascinate me
ah! the illusion of feminine fidelity;
A risky lover, I may say
tasty as a temptation, fiesty as a tigress
and clawed scars full of pus
in my tattoes from togetherness.
Totally Moosed Out
the most notable
Britney Spears objectified
bomb-flavoured
brassiere escapade-like
distracting pumpkinish
graduate-of-Dracut-
High-School
(Massachusetts) pool
of crud-enamoured
topic sentence-involved
squid-induced
red dumpster state
in the world!!!
Britney Spears objectified
bomb-flavoured
brassiere escapade-like
distracting pumpkinish
graduate-of-Dracut-
High-School
(Massachusetts) pool
of crud-enamoured
topic sentence-involved
squid-induced
red dumpster state
in the world!!!
SUPER GROVER SPREADS THE LOVE
Grover has been successful because
he gave/gives conservatives a forum
Grover is one of the ethnic
categories in future censuses
he was accused of fathering reduced tariffs
he says we are trying to change the tone
of state capitals into date rape
Grover is the nation's leading advocate
of "kill the taxes when tickled
unless batteries are dead"
He says a common problem
is getting accurate
like a lot of boomers
he missed Sex Ed 101
(Key to sex education: discipline)
given the avalanche of safer sex
Grover has an infectious laugh
that penetrates listeners
(Grover serve "food" to the man...
he gave/gives conservatives a forum
Grover is one of the ethnic
categories in future censuses
he was accused of fathering reduced tariffs
he says we are trying to change the tone
of state capitals into date rape
Grover is the nation's leading advocate
of "kill the taxes when tickled
unless batteries are dead"
He says a common problem
is getting accurate
like a lot of boomers
he missed Sex Ed 101
(Key to sex education: discipline)
given the avalanche of safer sex
Grover has an infectious laugh
that penetrates listeners
(Grover serve "food" to the man...
Smithereened Frailties
Chopin’s Fingers
I wrote this poem this morning while listening to Chopin chouse fingers against ivory-white keys culled from dead elephants and narwhale pike
to address the issue of paying homage and no little respect to the Polish skulls raked and smithereened through ash clips and bone by Stalinist cunts
with nothing better to do than reeve ass from jawbone like Black Angus to the slaughter pins and bolts jack-hammered into unsuspecting skull cups
knees buckling into sawdust and miller’s grease left after the slaughterers go home to fuck wives with too small teeth and gin stale breath and Oprah’s
tittering fresh in the mope of their thoughts and bridge hands trumping children’s washing and balanced meals fucking Stepford wives those forty-
five thousand and more ploughed into early graves with jackboots and silly grins and that fucking loud popping issuing from skulls kicked free of neck
and collar it seems only too fitting that I read this well-forgotten mistake in logic in a bar named the Advent and Large or whatever and wherever I am blithering like Oprah or Doctor Phil on meth and speed
Milk-teeth
Flail-points rasped to burr-edges on a match striker and a pull of yellow-sulfur air black with chamfer and junk-worry
Skin anointed with grain alcohol and puddle tarn, and the hex of her arm roughshod with brittle
Lost in that corner where thoughts are devils, and children’s scabbed over knees are revenants
Lost in that corner where thoughts are devils, and children’s scabbed over knees are revenants
Of dog’s tongues, milk teeth and whalebone, and church spires tracing blood and scrimshaw on the boughs of moth-nettled arms
Weaver Clothe
Before my friend’s father turned on the gas
He trenched the window seams with rags
He trenched the window seams with rags
Then skirled the tablecloth to the auld of his jaw
Palled in kerosene oil and jam
Palled in kerosene oil and jam
You, an empty page
I stare at you, an empty page
you show me nothing, no words
jump like flares at my face,
perhaps, written in magic ink
are sounds that will fluoresce
when caressed by a scorching gaze.
I stare at you, an empty page
you make faces, but no letters
twinkle from your unfathomed space
perhaps, will glow in dusk
like fireflies, become apparent, dance
the phrases of your unspoken grace.
you show me nothing, no words
jump like flares at my face,
perhaps, written in magic ink
are sounds that will fluoresce
when caressed by a scorching gaze.
I stare at you, an empty page
you make faces, but no letters
twinkle from your unfathomed space
perhaps, will glow in dusk
like fireflies, become apparent, dance
the phrases of your unspoken grace.
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