Right What I No

Write What You Know

Yes, my love?
Come up, Kinch! Come up, you.
Malachi Mulligan, two dactyls.

AR w/JJ in 3-6-9 haiku
write what you know

Passion Finds

Passion finds
Amongst its kind
The laws to obey
and love holds its sway.

Erosion

They say that god will return
To save the world

But I don’t know whom to believe
So I’ve made my own plans

My neighbor plans to pray for my soul
While his son fucks reality to produce confusion!

Are you aware of your mental avarice?
Ask a stranger to make your will

Can I talk to your conscience?
Like a guidance counselor

My subconscious wants to rebel
Is this the road to nirvana?

Religion is the root
Of all misery and evil
Kill and be killed shall be your anthem
Give god your mind
And he shall give you wisdom

Images flash across my mind
Bright and vivid
In their aimless revelation

“Call god into your bathroom and
Flush him down the toilet.”

Boundaries and Frontiers

Legally, the rocks challenge the wind and water for the right to wield supreme executive power over the forest. They believe only they are capable enough to determine the shifty border that separates the forest proper from the provinces beyond. The animals, for their part, stay out of it, content to exist within the comfortable confines represented by the visible limit of the forest as determined by the clear demarcation between trees and fields. The rocks extend the forest’s boundary a little farther to include the far-reaching roots which siphon water filtered through the bedrock under the fields. The water and wind challenge the rocks’ claims and determine that even the fields are within the domains of the forest since without the forest’s edge there would be no such thing as a field in the first place. The rocks are legacy, the wind and water an omnipresent history able to reference the constant stability of their repetitive impermanence. We have yet to hear from the trees as to which side of the debate they favour. Thus far they have been able to remain aloof despite having a vested interest in a larger, static and fixed forest.

Write what you know

Visitor 10

So ... here we are again.

The same
rooms in a different building, same
voices saying the same
things, same
lame
repartee, same
cars in the car park, same
view from the window, same
view from your head, same
new
and squeaky shoes,
same
paper feel under the fingertips,
warm from the machine's hot lips,
same
tea tasting of balloons, same
hot water from a snoring urn, same
password and username,
same,
same.

So ... here we are again,
Visitor 10.

Fab Fibonacci Sequence with Mesostic Colons

0 : 0
1 : 1
2 : 1
3 : 2
4 : 3
5 : 5
6 : 8
7 : 13
8 : 21
9 : 34
10: 55

Fab Fib w/Mesostic Rectum

heRos
plEasure
seConal pills
veTeran soldiers felled
reUniting with the fallen graves
laMbs slaughtered in a single sentence of doubt

Allan : Revich

Hand Made Journals

I make these journals by hand. They are made with book board and hand stiched. I use heavy watercolor paper and each page has a watercolor wash.

look the other way

read this read it faster than through a thought encourages its forgotten economy petrol inter-fest-uble consapient and

indecent

OCR A Extended

at what rate do you wish to
read, what are you trying to
say, do we have time to read
this, old plunder, hit stride,
waiting for the piano to play,
let tell, edudicate, seen
to day, how is one writing to-
day, hand drawn hand, this
is evil writing, being outside
the box, aliniate, never saw
that aspect of it before,
throwaway art, what is in
fact quite good, actual art,
cup kill, digging digitally,

l'amante

around Magritte

superstring

say i love you fuckface
when the evidence of words might be just
split into strings of spittle

from the speaker's mouth
to the listener's right cheek

also spake moby dick

so there they whale
you thou ye
which and now are what
their had when then
like man or who no
an do will them 
out were into
more we
zarathustra upon
up if would some did
its old only your still been
over thus great 
such these ship
sea hear how

other than those
ahab good said
long thy time
thee yet must down men
however
even last
also about most see

again well though
hath before may any
very head himself

way say us
too day life
her much where little every unto

ever first after
many two boat can 
has world own could captain

love our should
come go through
away once god shall

things seemed white while
hand round 
know am three
thing o hear

being never whales
let look stub same
new queequeg chapter
ones eyes sperm
soul off among might night
made oh just far almost

without water came back
side mine become
thought doth small
called against right
take why 
verily spirit starbuck
part deck found nor seen
because another something
make always fish
cried spake people

air body hands
nothing place tell
sir pequod think nietzsche
higher earth each speak
whole she half best
myself virtue themselves
stand light line 
heard feet death eye towards perhaps 
aye full sun
sort high give call
art therefore saw both
soon enough under present boats
evil end whom poor crew
between everything don went
times strange along
ah put word whaling 
hard whose find mast dead

matter till thyself better
live ears
want hear face
around indeed deep
true seem truth
going stood open power
moment above often hold whether
rather get wild fire
does seas lay already sight
words sail longer
flask mouth hast certain young wind living black
few voice order happiness
days bad work voyage 
hour set 
land home blood arm
alone run morning sleep
cannot legs heads least done keep heaven
sometimes nantucket leviathan known together

human devil seems name mind gone
turned self reason
oil learn standing ships
ground iron wisdom
case woman within point large friend
ere bed aloft second left jonah
cry account moby length
dick cabin
tail forth brethern since sailor
further says ocean mate lie harpooner
strong instant beyond 
beneath answered turn 
thoughts near king
feel believe became looking friends
four children board behind
yes whatever vast nature lord
fine yea harpoon
fast dark book
animals wise 
general especially waters
thousand short pip
peleg hearts having fellow clear
weary top thine silent sat
pity others means heavy ears began
whalemen lower hope given
concerning chance thereby
taken sure noble nigh child
business broad rope free else
ten less cave rest ready

learned yourselves
lost green behold wilt seek
mountains entire coming close
boy woe slowly purpose
hundred gods foam 
fishery fact cold took
suddenly laugh
gold foot common
souls nevertheless
mr legs course broken
bottom values highest help
greatest forward die vain
next monster house future fool
cometh break told taking spout

quite longing lo bear view
talk room passed
knew eternal comes change everything
watch vessel teeth superman
stern skin peculiar
otherwise nay
jaw does cook below
wide tashtego table
struck sit sailors red mere
kept indian honour hitherto
goes door cut curious cast
straight master mark
ivory harpooners grand eternity
either dog besides alas turning
try tree story 
sound savage
midnight main knowledge

height got fear craft
coffin show saith golden evening
waves wanteth used shadow
pass particular bow
bones sign past mean english bone war
sweet stranger sky
sharp sharks saying mighty
making kings hours gave fain
distance creature born blue

unless sudden state
sails running 
read question
pull none lightning
except calm 

Executioner 18

2.

He had departed that
military, Bolan had
matured into
military destiny, with little more
than violence and death.

Executioner of this dark landscape
where thugdom

reigned, focusing
unrestrained plundering

and a new war was born.

“I am not their judge, I am their judgement!”

It must have seemed
that all the actions and interactions had
been leading him, complex
human.

The mob:
Bolan saw them
collectively
as thieves and cutthroats;
humanity, a destructive
kind.

He also became the nation’s menace.

Stand and fight.

Few men living then could have been more
Bolan.

Dear Friend

Dear Friend,

It's been a few months since I received your e-mail asking for advice. I apologize for the delay in responding. Actually I can't recall exactly what your note asked for and it seems that although I have almost unlimited storage capacity I have deleted your e-mail. I'm not sure why I would have done that. I've never been good at apologies. I miss you sometimes when I think about those days or weeks when we did whatever we did together. Today I thought about talking to some of those old associates and I suppose someday I might think about it again. Who knows what tomorrow holds. Even if I did know I'm not certain it would be best to share the information with anyone. Too much liablity and so forth. Unless I'm on vacation--and I never am--I find it's best to be conservative. I don't recall where you moved or why but I hope you have found that thing you sought. I haven't found much of anything. In fact as far as I can tell I am exactly the same person you once knew. But that's not something I ever consider. The past is the past and there's no changing it. There's no changing at all. Thank you for asking about my manuscript. No I never did get it published nor did I try. Those ideas slip away like a fat May fly clinging to the inside of a window pane. It's nothing to worry about. Nothing at all. You are now like a faint sweet melody beyond the range of my hearing. So many other things endure and I've learned to ignore them all. I can barely feel my fingertips touch this surface. Bank interest accumulates silently. The stamp does not require licking. My chair conforms to me. This is the way of things. I wonder if you ever think of me. I wonder what you might think. No matter. I know you couldn't tell me such things even if you needed to tell. That is one thing I know. One thing I remember each day as I do whatever it is that I always do. A tedium of indeterminate duration and no consequence. Accept this lot. That is my advice to you. Everything I know. Dear Friend.

And I am in love.

Sincerely,
"Me"

The Calm and Scum-Green Grover

Perhaps no ass in America is as
influential as the ass of Grover
I have a Grover tattoo on my ass
Thats how much I like him
Although normally I would complain
that Ed Gillespie isn't jumping
two feet up Grover's ass
Maybe we can settle this issue by giving
a reward to the new HIV character...
Well, there's a very interesting use of Grover!
His pants are pushed down to his thighs
and he can't feel commonality between
clean Grover and dirty Grover
one can establish that Grover's algorithm
is essentially the only optimal
ass juice "Doing It to Death"
yes Grover types are explicit about
doo-doo at an ominous pace

Monotone of the Mission Statement

First off I have to say
a few official things
My friends say I'm money
they have seen me have some
experiences!
I'm still psycho-trippin'
People are always making fun
of me for stupid reasons
My mom says you can't get
sick when you medicalize people
I go to school with non-lds kids
and have non-lds friends too
They get sick if you put them in a
bubble and spray them in
the eyeballs with Lysol
I'm not really sure what a Mormon
is but I have some advice for you
neither you OR your friend should
be on a webcam because there are
a lot of pervs on there
Guys are gonna have their
opinions about famous girls
you don't have a team of
cosmetologists beside you
at every waking moment
I still get many questions about
people's pet frogs
hahaha wow _________________
I can never get sick of Spa-ghetto-Os

The whorl of sleep on her lips

I comprehended the world as it opened to me
in a bottled rose, all soft scented containment
the dreams of petals as they fell ellipsing to the glass base
the lips' murmur of self-forgiveness encased in sleep
their rustle never moving louder than a whisper.

but there was no box prophet 10

__________________

as there was no box
in which to fit her head
the lame thing'd've sat there
all day. flung. by the parts
into her juices, the bog
dragging, her feet.


if a prophet cld. not
hold her nose
in the high errant air,
of stinky clothes
what cld. she be doing?


if this seizure were nothing
but nullity and death,
of what her hankering hands
would be made, if not
salt of her wounds,
& chests of her greaves?


a prophet sat by her arse,
in the sleeve of biblical
jack her jimmy self,
nackerd by disasters's favorite name.

holding up the fort is not her metier
nor playing ambitious games,
as her bum sits down once again
for to pleasure her rump,
Sister Maria-Buttocks measures
the fair where trouncing maids
've played, straying their crops
to say nothing of flocks
against the
Roman way of skimpy boons
and shoving docks.

_______________________________________

of english birds & part article her heart was skittish matter

roiling in the wave her hair

a stare down fatter

of rocking souls

their patter

a m a z e

trilingual ring

nose her

heart poops

puffs up the rent

of her bargain basement

lodgings







.

 

The Poet Thinks Heretical Thoughts

I wonder if Jesus smiled when he made love?
Did his face shine with the inexpressable mystery
Of the Three Persons? Did archangels keep watch
Over the incorporeal Son's coitus? Or did he, face
Shining in sweat, emit love sounds, much like those
That the good book would frown upon. I do not know
For sure, but I think he told me the answer, when
I saw him in a vision last night. It might have been
Indigestion, I agree- , or perhaps it could be
The gospel truth, not a grain of fiction in it.

this Testament Of My Pen

This testament of my pen
Is what I was born to do
I take to it in zen
Its all done for you.

chismoth

inhale army moths

relax humid sleep

dream to enter

use the flights

coalesce the coal

flash the theory

cut what is left

The One-Minute Teenager

Place twelve-year-old in microwave.

Keynesian Poetics

the READ-HATE alert is still valid.
poetic confirmation today is denied.
the pattern is not yet rejected
since the day was not a long
white candlestick day.

readership is indecisive so
keep up the good work and
continue to do your homework
digesting all available critical
theories.

final judgment about
the evolving pattern waits
the next reading.

either the poetic alert
will be confirmed by
one of the valid poetic
confirmation criteria
or the poetic alert will be
void and invalid.

the last two candlesticks
formed a trap door under
a long-winded sponsor.

this is a poetic reversal
pattern that marks a potential
change in trend.

its reliability is not high and it
requires confirmation. it is still
your duty to check poetic
confirmation criteria when
the next reading opens.

briefly, a black candlestick with
a downward gap is sufficient
to confirm the READ-HATE
alert though with a one day delay.

sell your poem in any of these markets
by respecting the benchmarks. in any
other case, simply ignore the READ-HATE
alert.

the next reading is the last
chance we allow for poetic
confirmation. a confirmation
failure renders the assumed
poetic pattern totally
invalid and starts the
process of searching for a new
pattern. poetic Homing Pigeon
Pattern is a small black real
poem contained by a prior
relatively long black real
poem. amen.

Three Stories

three stories are sailing towards the river
they branch from the basin in the direction of the new line
often hungry
they intermingle on the descent,
fetch their allowed cargoes
of flames, razor blades, local beers, Indian tattoos
and they enter early morning

one has disappeared and heads west to the streets of the town
translated into magic maps and scant silver details of the river.

one has gone down the counterbalanced inclines, to autumn,
grey summer changed to drab grey streets and the drab city,
and the various wintery waterways

one
laden with fruit and wine
takes the canal up to the natural harbours of the houses at nightfall
dark stone and shining lamps illuminating gilded windows.

they carry a character all after all
the story of the good stuff in life
poignant memoir of the now
and the five years we have lived beyond the edge of the map.

Chinamen

They were lying in ambush.
He came to his death by homicide.
He was murdered by a thief.
He committed suicide.
He was choked to death by a lasso.
He was starved to death in prison.
He was frozen to death in the snow.
He was killed by an assassin.
He tred to assassinate me.
He was an assaulter.
He was smothered in his room.
He was suffucated in his room.
He was shot dead by his enemy.
He was poisoned to death by his friend.
He tries to kill him by poisoning.
He tries to inflict death by poison.
He took the law in his own hand.
He tried to deprive me of my situation.

The Word Was On An Angle's Tongue

The word was on an angle's tongue
It loved it long and well
More words was around it's neck strung
As if a secret spell.

Last Night

Last night I ordered a whole meal in Chinese. Even the waiter was amazed. I was in a French restaurant.

with Kennth Irby at the Helm

Kenneth Irby suddenly arrived in Boston from LAWRENCE, KANSAS. He was, I was told, a poet named Ken Irby. This seemed slightly absurd. Not that he lived there, reason stands that he must live somewhere. That he arrived with little fanfare, to visit a Cambridge function, strange. But it was he, complete with the name and a hand to shake as need be. So if I suddenly became owner of a major media corporation, I would have the First Kenneth Irby. As Ken Irby pointed out, this causes a lot of consternation. Speaking of the Lawrence poetic community, I suddenly realized today that I doubt if Ken Irby has ever read a poem. Ken Irby just stopped by my table in the cafeteria as I was drinking my morning coffee. Kenneth Irby suggests that there is a case for respecting. Kenneth Irby tells me that he recalls Duncan talking enthusiastically about cybernetics. Ken Irby identified one pitfall of the strict. The poet Kenneth Irby, who writes in a thoroughly modern mode has the need for tall basketball players. Ken Irby, who I saw last weekend, remarked how Robert Duncan read everything. "It's been more of a challenge than an easy transition," admits Irby. I avoided her as well as I could for a while, but she suddenly approached Kenneth Irby. Ken Irby used to think that I lay with my subconscious self open, head down. I queried Kenneth Irby. “I remember concern and a level of bureaucracy to what journalists used to see as free rein," says Kenneth Irby. Suddenly, I don't recognize it anymore but Kenneth Irby paced the way. Kenneth Irby says the increasing use of this question of bad journalism suddenly becomes biased journalism. if we could suddenly conquer death wouldnt we also have to prevent birth with photographs by Kenneth Irby?

Me

eyes
wrists
teeth
thighs

****

this
this
this
this

we shook hands...

just.

Dad

A fortuneteller told dad that he would die September 9, 1998. The day came and went and Dad, who had died eight months previously, had the last laugh.

Rabbit burrow

11. LISP to be sucked for always.
29. This sodium eats the flash not.
11. Voices in the head and the deroxat.
391. No calories with the bitumen land-surveyor.
77. The initiation of the alzeimer starts.
114. Fellatio on the tailpipes.
25. Weekly magazines with back of dromedaries.
224. The infinite saga of the escalators.
585. Germinated currency and total filling.
91. To be born with the conscience from the rabbit burrow.

a collabo between Michael Koshkin (Hot Whiskey Press) and me (John Sakkis/ BOTH BOTH series) on a warm summer night ruminating about Ted Berrigan...

I

Ted Berrigan had the junk
in the front of the fridge
with ball fat dangling
at his thigh.

My my my, Robert Bly
how do you pluck that
thang?
Alice doesn't live here anymore
as a bike in his bed
said vas deferens.



II

The bear hibernates above us
dreams of "totally natural" pocket ass
the cloud's blue
as a brick in
the sleeve or a
Grizzly, on back
or a set of balls.

It doesn't come out in her work
but I think I'll start a blog—
Blue- balls on a birch
Berrigan's balls
falling



III

The itch never bothered him much
the box only delivered such
treated waste in
the water a shiny
blue maggot
it's face, chubby
Eshleman-like
I wanted to chew it
though the droop
in the sack
stank of green-tea and berries.



IV

I never wanted a scrotum
in the center of my life
like Latin-cock
— Big in the middle
and a little top heavy
Ted had breasts
and babies/ blue
in the face
with milk.



V

He couldn't finish
a god-damned thing
his hair
watching Heathers
through the hole.

In his heart
dripping like a sweaty sack
after a tough game
Wynona in Dakota
on the field
on the ball.



VI

I go for the balls
then pass to you
and go for the conch.

O sweet lemon
no cut could soften
this neighborly porch
on the ear—
Molly Malone



VII

This is the spot
porchin it
from the blue-berry
at the porch
the purple spice
of big-bear bleeding
at the tooth

Where's the balls in that,
Ted?
¿Dónde están los juevos
en ésa?



VIII

She said:
"Berrigan in bed
makes head
with blanket"

Takes salad home— leftovers
tosses it there
goes to downer
gets off early

—balls making bread

Life Is But A Span

Life is but a span
Then death comes
To every man.

...

I had to chance to get out... Did I?
They gave me that chance... Did they?
I could have been someone... Ain't I?
It could have meant something... doesn't it?

Executioner 18

“It is true
damnation. The worst
statesmen
be damned.”

-T.S. Eliot


my
damnation is the only prize, the
final judge. Meanwhile, I am

-Mack Bolan, THE EXECUTIONER


1.

I am words,
a machine of war Viêtnam-Baptized,
the war of the torturer against the frank one.

Balance: for each
good an evil, each injustice a final justice.

Their own actions provoked reaction
relentless
as any force in the universe.

The mob itself
had fashioned the Executioner.

The man was Mack Bolan:
soldier.

Bolan had grown up
his family died.

It was informed spite.

sAVE as dIRT19*(

Her Teeth

she had no teeth to speak of
a no man’s land of fence stumps

and gate stiles

earthen up after an august storm
or a hard whack

to the mouth



The Cremator

the cremator wears gloves to keep the bones
and teeth from working up under the moons of his nails
his wife has a duster made from twills of hair
for scalloping up under his thumbs
block and tackling what little
remains of man and child
gods and faith



Wind-gallows

what a curious little man he is
cataracts like cats’ whiskers
whitening the shells of his eyes
eyes that see with such precision
through stones hard as mirrors
beyond the steep sculls of rain
scattering like children
into the warmth of waiting skin
and the night, slowly climbing
up the back of my throat
like a cursed nail, a rigor mortis
filling up the empty spaces
with storms and wind-gallows
and to think that you, a child no more
with eyes brighter than night stars
cannot see the cataracts, white as shells
hardening your sight to the wind-gallows
and nails, cursing the rigor mortis
of waiting skin



Rotten Apples

beetles
lay their
eggs
beneath
my
fingers
carapaces
hard as
apples
like Kafka’s
back



Whites’ (over)

Borges’ (oysters) whites
skinned over, left to
touch, smell, bumps
and (mind’s eye)

Haiku #9

I don’t want to care.
Because its not important.
But sometimes I do.

-

opportunize.
chancen up.
just verb on.

sCHIZOcYCLE*9(

Murphy fownd a horsis hede in the bruwn rivar that ran across tha beck of thair properte whair a juneiparberre hedge clung ta lif amidst tha rock an dirt an a stend uv poplars cutcrucked an ran paralell ta tha rivar. Tha frunthede wuz crushd in at tha temoral lobe an a tangle uv seeweed crept out frum between a fizzure in tha gray skullbone that met up with tha eyesockets. Thair wair a nest uv eels crevassed in tha nostrilholes an a green gelatinus lump in tha vallt uv tha mowth. Whair tha teeth met with tha jaw a whileenamel bonespur connectd with tha hinge undar tha ear pessages whair anuthar eel had fownd a purchase. Murphy had heerd that fisharmen oftin used horsis hedes to cetch eels in tha wetar sirounding tha opinfeelds. He had alsew seen a man with a longthin nife cut throo tha muscle an tenduns uv a horsis leg an hobbled it on tha spot. Tha horse wuz than broken ta tha grownd an lay thair in a puddal uv its own blood. He had heerd that tha horse wuz too old ta do ane farmwerk an wuz put down as a conseqwence uv that; an that wen a horse wuz put down, tha fermar alweys cut its hede off an sold it ta a fisharman that livd in a cettage neer tha brownrivar. I thinc I mite be otistick; I inhabit two divergant realitees that cennot cum inta contect with oneanuthar. If thay did, tha results wood be catastrofic.

dOSTOEVESKI'S iDIOT9s)

I give you fair warning; this is a story told by a fool. Not one of Dostoeveski's idiots, a boorish intellectual, but a fool whose sole purpose in life is to spread foolishness and confusion. Idiocy is far too common; I leave that to anarchists and idealists. I am the excrescence that fills the void, the otherness to the reality you feel, hear, touch, taste, fuck and shit out of all the holes that you lay claim to. I am no idiot, but a foolish man with little patience or tolerance for fools. I tolerate myself, but only out of shear necessity, a necessity to strike a balance in the imbalance of my life. All other necessities are meaningless.

I remember riding my bicycle in the warm summer rain, splashguards removed and hidden in the clutter of the garage where my father couldn’t find them. Face pushed full throttle into the wind; eyes cutting holes into the late evening sun setting over the houses and rooftops that a Frenchman built from memory and plumb rule. The suburbs, a hideaway for child molesters, incurable alcoholics with beat-in noses and foul breath, nicotine yellow fingers, unkempt hair, yelping children and sad, pathetic wives. And me on my ten speed, hockey cards clacking in the wick of my spokes, some long forgotten Montreal Canadian’s face unrecognizable but for a few missing teeth and a puck scar. Chousing dead leaves with my foot up against the sidewalk, one eye kept on the front lawns of the neighbors to see if they were sleeping, or beating they’re children blue and weightless. The real alcoholics whet their thirsts in damp basements or in the privacy of dark sinkholes where the man who made the hockey rink ice drank, three fingers missing from each hand, poor, pathetic bastard. He spent more time trying to tame the icemaker’s hose, stooped off balance, but unable to hold onto the boards with one finger and a thumb on either hand, than making hard ice. The alcohol in his guts all that kept him from keeling over and freezing to death in the snow bank on the other side of the boards. They never honored him with a hockey card, face varicose and pox scarred, spurs of icy tears bridging the gap between blood red eyes. Sad, pathetic bastard, two drinks away from a breakdown or an early grave. And me on my bicycle, dodging sinkholes and tire rubber, thinking not of a future, but of a past that wouldn’t go away. My father’s poorly made beer, fermented in clay barrels and stopped in reusable bottles he’d forged from new ones. Always that first eruption of foam, bitter and lye tasting that split the end of my tongue. A numbness like a headlock gone too far, souring the insides of my mouth, dizziness like falling, purging me off balance and upended. But I drank it, greedily, to ward off remembering and giving things a second thought

She often awakens to pain. Like a burning sensation or an itching, the result of too much of everything and nothing at all. Too much of this, too little of that. Not enough sleep, too much catnapping in between. Too many nights spent in a sweat, eyes pressed tight, ears thudding with footsteps and doors creaking open. A seam of hallway light, faint and yellow, illuminating the foot of her bed, hands groping and foraging for a scallop of skin, a hint of fear. She crouches, cowered, under the volcano: Popocatepetl, Ixtaccihuatl, and Quauhnahuac. All mothers, yet harbingers of death and short lives. The holes in mother earth, dug by suspect hands. Here she will cower, knees pulled in tight to her chest, heaving and galloping with fear. It is here, beneath these behemoths, that she will find her comfort, her distance from the pain and horror of childhood. I think of her often, her hair braided in rows, corn silk and muslin, eyes bluer than the bluest sky, somehow bluer. Of her cowering, legs knocking against each other, tether marks still burning where he lashed her to his perversion. I remember her eyes, eyes that filled a room, a place, a moment, with sadness and fear, a child’s eyes of lost innocence, innocence never had. Only fear and trembling knees, a heart galloping and heaving with fear and suspect hands. She will never forget one tooth mark, one scratch on the milk of her thighs. Eyes pressed tight into the furrow of her brow, thoughts receding into the illusion of time and place. I am someone else, she would say, someone not here, not now, not this, not again. Not him, not me, but here, someone else, but not me, never me, never again. These images never fade; never recede into the landscape of her thoughts, where hornets and bees, gods’ winged furies, tend garden flowers and honeysuckle. I, too, will never forget, as much as I try. She is with me, her breath crushed against my cheek, her eyes heavy with sleep, yet unable to close whenever I awaken in fright. I have never told her, but suspect she always knew, how when she had finally given into sleep I would listening for footsteps, look for a stitch of yellow under the door, my own eyes heavy with sleep and volcanoes. Memories are like thieves, robbing us of the gift of forgetting, yet staying the capacity to remember that which we struggle to forget. I have had more than enough memories, more than one person need remember, yet never forget.

If I were to tell you, tell you how it is, you wouldn’t believe me. I am not what I appear be, what I seem to be, but the difference between the two, what is seen and what is appearance. The two, the seen and the appearance, are often the same, yet different, indifferent to being seen as the same. What is seen is often not what appears, or what it appears to be, seen. Being seen, and being the appearance of what is seen, the seen, depends on the other for the appearance of being and being seen. The two, in this manner, are interdependent yet dependent of one another; they are seen as being seen as the appearance of what is seen, or appears to be seen as seen. If I were to tell you (which I won’t) you would only see what you want to see, the appearance of what is seen as seen, nothing more. I am the appearance that is never seen but appears to be seen, the difference between the two. I am the tissue connecting the two, the seen and the appearance of the seen, or what appears to be seen, yet never is. When you see me, the appearance of me, the seen of me, what you are seeing is not me, but the appearance of what is seen as seen; the difference between the two, what lies in between the seen and the appearance of what is seen as seen. As I said, I am not what I appear to be, the appearance of what is seen as seen, yet never seen at all, but the seen as seen as the appearance of being seen as seen, the appearance of seen, the illusion of appearance and being seen. I told you, you wouldn’t believe me, see me for what I am, what is seen and appears to be seen, the seen of appearance, the illusion of the seen and the appearance of what is seen as seen. The rectory parasite saw me for what I was; a frightened, confused boy, the appearance of someone, a being that was never there to begin with, but was seen just the same. It is the illusion of being seen, of being an appearance of the seen, that, and that alone, is what appearance and being seen are, nothing more. Sometimes, so I have learned, it is better to be seen as an appearance of being seen, a not seen, than being seen at all. Perceptions are like that, appearances seen as memories one has remembered to forget. What is seen is seen backwards, from the illusion and appearance of the present seen in the past. What is seen is never seen, but remembered, the appearance of what was seen but never was. Now you see what I have seen yet never seen: the illusion of being seen, but never being seen at all. It is the appearance of being seen that is seen, nothing more.

so anyway, version nine thousand and something

obviously Allen said he believes a congressional resolution expressing remorse (I could just feel myself struck down, Allen added swiftly)
Allen said essentially what needed to be said (I don’t have any business being here, he added enthusiastically)
Everybody stay cool, said Allen hopelessly, momentarily interrupting his Ommmm (slowly he added, if it works everything could be up for consideration)
I felt anything but dramatic at the time, said Allen ruefully (evenly he added we will now move as fast as we can)
humans couldn't respond fast enough, Allen said previously (delightfully he added he will only sing in public when the Confederate flag is not just a symbol of regional pride)
what I did was wrong, hurtful to myself and my family, Allen said aggressively (I might have picked out a more appropriate place, he added whimsically)
the Bush campaign is aware of this announcement, Allen said accidentally (I do think it rattled them a bit he added deliberately)
in addition Allen said good-bye to Howard (we talked about me, he added defiantly)
I’m feeling really good out there right now, Allen said loosely (eventually he added he doesn't think he spoke)
Allen said greedily there will be more than 57 tables (perfectly added he would like to work with Superintendent of Schools Simon Bosco)
safely Allen said so many things were stranger than he expected (he added recklessly he had to stop at the motel to make a phone)
hungrily Allen said I'm 100 percent (he added hastily, I had been a toy collector for 45 years)
mostly, we were scattered, Allen said honestly (the base functionality is extremely powerful, he added vivaciously)
well, at least it got me up for kirtana this morning, Allen said hastily (I commiserate with Vance, Allen added dryly)

Pomotional CD That My Secret Santa Said Was Free

Free Promotional CD That My Secret Santa Told Me Was Free 05/21/06

L: what is your wh- um

B: Uh, it’s rather difficult to, to project what kind of, uh

Genie: oh okay, it's enlightening to think of the breeze

Host: Well you’re not too far from me then. At least we’re in the same state

Phoebe: Oh, okay, except I broke up with Roger

Tammy: on January 29, 2006 at 4:39 pm?

Commenter gravatar Yannick Oh okay cool

Rachel: What happened?

Stephen: I seem to have mis-interpretted something somwhere

Kent: oh okay, i make up most of the stuff i post anyway :)

Forrest: You forgot to add the countless pissed off Sega fans

Dave: badges? We don't need—oh okay!

Kent: I'd be honored if you named your scar after me

The Morganater: Don't wear black with khaki, wear oxblood or dark brown instead

Boy: Oh, okay, yeah

Girl: He said he teleported himself, but it turned out he was lying!

Lesbian #2: Oh, yeah, okay, he's not going under water

Susie: oh okay, I get it

Taco dude: They'll say your number

Lloyd: Oh, okay, and therefore the wood is for the fire

Al: Correct

Girl: Oh okay. You're really an asshole

Girl folding clothes: A tomato? Is that like when it rains frogs for no reason?

Guy: Okay, you're a lesbian who got great legs

Filthy man: Oh. Okay. 'Cause I was about to pull out my AK47 and shoot you dead

Construction worker #2: Okay, but how many relationships have you had?

Maxx: I forgot to put my tongue away

Woman on cell: Oh yeah? Oh yeah? Well fuck you, Eric!

Ben Grumbles: Oh okay. Thanks for joining me today on this call

'...thankful to your host !'

... By setting a Bridge between USA and France !

(unable to consider myself a poet, all I can bring is a clumsy translation from my favorite poet, brilliant writer, lover of both French and American langages ... Please forgive my french, 'cose I'm French !)

Mister Saint John Perse

Chanson


Mon cheval arrêté sous l'arbre plein de tourterelles, je siffle un sifflement si pur, qu'il n'est promesses à leurs rives que tiennent tous ces fleuves. Feuilles vivantes au matin sont à l'image de la gloire)...

Et ce n'est point qu'un homme ne soit triste, mais se levant avant le jour et se tenant avec prudence dans le commerce d'un vieil arbre,
appuyé du menton à la dernière étoile,
il voit au fond du ciel de grandes choses pures qui tournent au plaisir.

Mon cheval arrêté sous l'arbre qui roucoule, je siffle un sifflement plus pur...
Et paix à ceux qui vont mourir, qui n'ont point vu ce jour.
Mais de mon frère le poète, on a eu des nouvelles. Il a écrit encore une chose très douce. Et quelques-uns en eurent connaissance.

Song

My horse stopped beneath the tree filled with doves, I whistle a sound so pure,
That it is just a promise to the doves' shore as a river could hold. Floating leaves in the morning impersonate the glory ...

There is no way for a man to be sad, but getting up before sun rise and trading gently beneath this old tree,
Holdin his chin up to the very last star,
He sees deep into the sky some great pure things that turn to joy.

My horse stopped beneath the singing tree, I whistle a sound so pure ...
Peace to the ones facing their death, who did not see this very day.
From my brother the poet, we received some news. He wrote once again something so sweet.
And some of us had heard of it.