In 2002 I moved to Taos, after my flamboyantly liberal cousin Jill, on Thanksgiving said, "You should move out. We’ll lend you the van. But you can hitch hike easily as well. We do it all the time."
I accepted her offer.
A few months later, acclimated to the environment, I decided to visit a Buddhist shrine down Rim Road. From their earth-ship I walked to the intersection of Rim Road and Two Peaks Road and seamlessly got a ride from a guy with a mohawk and a pierced nose. He had an open top Suzuki Samurai. We wash-boarded three miles then stopped by a road with Tibetan prayer flags auspiciously folding in the wind. He said, "I’d take you on up, but my girlfriend’s waiting, you know..."
"Na, that’s cool man. Hey, thanks for the ride." I got out and anxiously walked on.
After sitting half-lotus for an hour in front of an elaborate stupa chanting mantras with sandalwood prayer beads laced between my fingers, I got up and checked out the entire compound built within two acres of land. Satisfied, I ambled back to the entrance with the prayer flags and then about two more miles down Rim Road. I managed to get picked up again by a couple of nappy fellows with long matted hair and beards, reeking of numerous soap-less-days, folks we called mesa-rats. I climbed in the back of their hatch back and sat in a carpet of dog hair beside the shedding mutt and wash-boarded down the rest of the road as they discussed the war. I got dropped off at the intersection; they were heading East. Seemed I was back on my feet.
Now, ponder on not having second nature transportation and giving a lot of thought about the welfare of feet on asphalt/earth walking, standing with a thumb raised like an SOS distress signal.
I now lived in my cousin’s school bus, but we’d had disagreements about my attitude and productiveness, none-the-less I felt I needed to jet, settle in on my own. I had a bag packed with clothes and personal effects and walked to the intersection—put my thumb into the air. I watched as a half-dozen other hitchers acquired rides and headed off East. I was heading West; no one else it seemed was. Two hours past standing with a Viagra-stiff-thumb as Jill and her husband Stuart rolled up sixties' style in their peace-blue-micro-bus, stopped beside me and inquired, "You trying to get to work?"
I replied, "Yyyeah."
Her husband smiled, nodded his head and said, "Good luck then," turning the Grateful Dead back up and puttering off into the dust. I gave them the bird—‘damn pseudo-hippies’. So, I didn’t make it to work on time but did eventually get a ride. All in all over three hours were wasted as well as my temperament and health in the dry summer heat.
But let’s backtrack, back before the dissension. My most extensive hitch hiking ordeal. Imagine: fire swelling in dehydrated thighs and loins, blisters rubbed raw into heels and big toes, lips cracked like the death-valley’s surface, and eyes wild and burning with exertion and stimulants—a few things I gained on this trip.
I drove my cousin’s family van everywhere I went, but they’d decided one day to take the Chrysler-junk to Sante-Fe on a day I’d decided to go nature-hiking into the Ski-Valley. Their other vehicles had straight shifts. They said, "We’ll drop you off at the ‘old blinking light’. You’ll have no problem getting a ride from there."
They dropped me off and I pushed the walk button on the pole, waited for the traffic to thin and the white-lighted-man-walking to appear. On the other side standing on the concrete curb facing the route to the valley, universal-pick-me-up-thumb raised I immediately had a GrandPrix with a California tag pull over. I got in with a couple younger guys touring the Southwest. They took me up past Arroyo Seco, dropped me off at the corner of the road that continued into the Valley. They were taking a left into an area I’d yet to travel. From here I stood by a lone adobe art gallery with a plastered lion head and front legs erupting from the building above the door for around an hour with about three or four vehicles passing by.
‘No good luck like that first quick snag,’ I thought.
I started walking past the gallery and headed down a steep hill. Half way down a red truck rumbled by; they just looked and continued on. Most of the vehicles I’d seen so far had Texas tags and other Mid-Western state tags, even saw one from Florida; tourists from areas not accustomed to picking up odd looking characters off the side of the road.
I continued walking for a few hours with pain cutting into the heels of my feet. I wore Tiva hiking sandals, but they were showing definite design flaws. I found an spot by the river that ran along the winding road where I could make my way down and soak my feet in the cold mountain water and rest. Slightly relieved I made my way back up and continue on. I guess I’d walked a good eight miles when a grey compact car rode by and turned off onto the embankment. My pace quickened and as I made my way up I noticed yet again another California tag. I started to believe then that Cali. must not be too bad. I related to her my troubles up to now as she gave her equivalent of the Southern phrase, ‘well bless your heart,’ but with genuine concern. She drove an eternity of only two miles. She apologized for having came so late, not able to have given me much help. We exchanged a laugh and parked. I got out and thanked her.
The Ski-Valley felt deserted; it was summer I suppose and walked into the Dutch replicated town-scape and went inside a pizza joint to see if I could get some first-aid for my feet. Inside, a stoner-frat-boy looking guy came out of the kitchen. He asked what he could do for me.
I said, "No pizza man, just wondering if you got some Band-Aids, gauze, Ducktape, and Neosporin?"
He pulled out a box with the variants of each item. I took what I needed, went outside and sat on the front stoop and took care of my feet. I returned the box thanking him and asked if he knew the location of the Bull of the Woods trail. He directed me, off I went, temporarily relieved.
Three miles up the arduous trail I collapsed; my legs felt like a polio patients’ and my loins felt like I’d taken a bullet in ‘Nam, lost in an unknown mountainous jungle. I lay there thinking about the stupidity of my notion to go hiking; I intended for it to be pleasant and enjoyable, like the other hikes I’d taken, but I’d already walked around eight miles on asphalt under prepared, out of shape, and seriously pissed I’d not been able to have the van. I realized then that I should have just taken it easy at the pizza joint. I lay on the grass in a small opening in the evergreens off the trail, napping. Awake and alert again I stretched, feeling like I’d walked all day and just slept on the same surface my feet had been on.
I half stumbled down the trail ready to get an early start on panhandling for a ride back to the bus—a good twenty plus miles away. Back at the empty pizzeria I introduced myself officially to the cook/cashier guy. I spoke vaguely about the trip; he offered to give me a ride back down the valley to the ‘old blinking light’. Relieved to have someone easily offer a ride I started idle conversation. He asked if I didn’t mind making a beer run to the convenience store on the other side of the resort—"Within easy walking distance."
Mindful of how great a beer would be at that point I took the guy’s money and left. I returned and handed him a six pack of Coors’ Lite and his change. He pulled one out and handed it to me along with a slice of pizza and said, "I’ll have to close the store out, but it won’t be late since it’s Sunday."
"That’s fine man, I don’t mind chilling out for awhile waiting. ‘Least I know I got a ride."
Enter montage of present tense time passage. [It’s early evening. I’m watching television. Two underage guys, who work at the place, show up to goof off. I ride with the two guys for more beer. Everyone in the kitchen is drinking; one guys pulls out a joint; we pass the joint around. Another guy shows up with more weed; tells me he’s from New Zealand and was an extra in the second Lord Of The Rings movie—drinking and smoking continue. Three German foreign exchange girls who know the pizza-making-crew wander in. Drinking and smoking halts as customers walk in: a yuppie family—husband, wife, and daughter. Miraculously their order is taken and their food is sufficiently cooked. They get the drift and take it to go.The sun is now setting into the mountains. The two underage guys are hitting gravel rocks off into the town-scape, aiming for a stain glass window or anything that might cost money. Near dusk—everyone has cancelled excitement for either realization of parental domination or excessive school work and return home.] Exit montage of present tense time passage.
With the restaurant closed but not clean we left and were finally blazing away from the Taos Ski-Valley Resort. We came to Arroyo Seco and past the Gypsy 360 café and by Momentitos de la Vidas’ and finally to the red traffic light of the ‘old blinking light’. Groggy but thankful to at least be here I got out and told the guy we should smoke out again. Standing alone I realized it did not seem like a good idea to hang around the intersection with myself inebriated and it being pitch dark. I pushed the walk buttons at each section and darted across like Frogger. I figured I’d walk on up and stand off the pavement on sixty-four west and try to get a ride; people turning in would already be at a decreased speed and there was plenty of space to pull over. In the swirl of sound and lights I stood uneasy with the prospect of what I intended to do. ‘It’s night,’ I thought.
I decided to start walking again.
"Damn this hitchhiking," I said, about to fall over seeing car lights approaching, unsure if I had too much of my body in the road, trying to force someone to see me. One after another cars/trucks/motorcycles careened by me. ‘No one’s stopped so far, no ones probably gonna stop at all,’ I thought.
I topped a hill and saw the Taos Regional Air Port; then it clicked; I remembered Stuart worked at the airport. Jill—I’d forgot about my cousin. I opened my cell phone and pushed the contacts button, scrolled down until I found their number and called. Surprised that Jill actually answered the phone, I said, "Hey, I’m just before the airport on the side of the road. Come pick me up. I’m half dead."
Shocked that I’d waited so long to call, she replied in amusement,"Ok, give me a minute to get myself together and I’ll be there, just don’t ride off with someone else."
"If I could have gotten a ride I wouldn’t have called," I said as an autobahn-speed-sedan roared by me...
Again, ponder on not having second nature transportation and giving a lot of thought about the welfare of feet on asphalt/earth walking, standing with a thumb raised like an SOS distress signal. Be it day or night I found hitch hiking to be too romanticized a notion of travel—be prepared to walk more than ride most time. Have sufficient foot wear, water and food even if the distance isn’t necessarily far. Things go wrong, like having no one stop or having to spend four or five hours partying. Be aware that sometimes strange people are more inclined to pick up strays off the road, unless their hard-core locals or they’re from California.
Locust Shell
The shell
of a locust,
back left leg
broken, is taken
from the ground,
hung back
on a pine tree.
of a locust,
back left leg
broken, is taken
from the ground,
hung back
on a pine tree.
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meets the Rosy Crucifixion
and the hound gog couple
a couple is a disgusting thing
dont'ya think?
the QUeen of England
met Welfare that week
she was a shit
gather'd in her gowns
was the deterioration of thought
real thought veiled behind stinky goos
and plucks
chickens sawed off their head backwards
baking in the garden
the professionalism of their deity sickeing
in the socious
.
Soon we went to the festival
there were many there.
lots of dots. molecules.
pages of hurts, negatives of sloping
solitudes. a man said to me I think
___ is fascistic.
A few hours later
I posed the question to a friend
who was a fellow of this organization
so and so said
was ____ fascistic.
She said
I think ____ alcoholism is more fascistic.
then a few months before some
one a bunch attacked some words in apoem
she wrote.
then Mona came to her rescue on Roy street
lo ve making all day
hungry was th e word for Welfare.
Hungry and two dollars a d ay a night.
She was sent to a
labour camp
not a langour camp
.
hugging trays.
.
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meets the Rosy Crucifixion
and the hound gog couple
a couple is a disgusting thing
dont'ya think?
the QUeen of England
met Welfare that week
she was a shit
gather'd in her gowns
was the deterioration of thought
real thought veiled behind stinky goos
and plucks
chickens sawed off their head backwards
baking in the garden
the professionalism of their deity sickeing
in the socious
.
Soon we went to the festival
there were many there.
lots of dots. molecules.
pages of hurts, negatives of sloping
solitudes. a man said to me I think
___ is fascistic.
A few hours later
I posed the question to a friend
who was a fellow of this organization
so and so said
was ____ fascistic.
She said
I think ____ alcoholism is more fascistic.
then a few months before some
one a bunch attacked some words in apoem
she wrote.
then Mona came to her rescue on Roy street
lo ve making all day
hungry was th e word for Welfare.
Hungry and two dollars a d ay a night.
She was sent to a
labour camp
not a langour camp
.
hugging trays.
.
yer better than pretty|late thru speed
youre better than pretty yer paradox
youre paranoia is close to metanoia
as metaphor is close to metempsychosis
is that is that that is close to fairies
dance on wheels.
after the motorcycle accident &
surgery he could breath
not that seeing was no good
but breathing
smelling restored balanced the nape
of his neck against the shortage of his death.
was it a machine close to the steppe?
betweens the puck over the arch
of head on head it's the scream tooth post of the
mouth
maybe a meeting maybe you
dea
th
oR
Life
.
youre paranoia is close to metanoia
as metaphor is close to metempsychosis
is that is that that is close to fairies
dance on wheels.
after the motorcycle accident &
surgery he could breath
not that seeing was no good
but breathing
smelling restored balanced the nape
of his neck against the shortage of his death.
was it a machine close to the steppe?
betweens the puck over the arch
of head on head it's the scream tooth post of the
mouth
maybe a meeting maybe you
dea
th
oR
Life
.
Chucking Dialectic on the Way Home
there may be whispering franchise left to us, an alert. look, taped to the window in front, for all to see. we ask it a question:
who is colouring the sky?
a basic sameness arises. curiosity forbids real sanction, just oft-quoted resolutions concerning people and their function. to answer the question: anyone is everywhere, and the sky follows along.
where does the warzone stay?
here we encounter a ratified force. warzone is but a congestion of surprises, mixed with whimsy or analogue propriety, to address situations that are not ‘in hand’. once again the universe must be boiled down to hardened arrangements. the warzone remains still.
in traveling these verities, which are inroads or pavement indications, what shall we carry with us?
turbid front money, your realm, pieces, short range missile shapes, slaps, hearty laughter, canned arrow memory, a gushing platitude, sparkling adages, a mindless thrum.
is heresy and victuals the same thing?
yes, and full of gumption, too. remember that the poor enact their own rules, sinking ever so, and a thousand times or more. please maintain your wits as you proceed!
who is colouring the sky?
a basic sameness arises. curiosity forbids real sanction, just oft-quoted resolutions concerning people and their function. to answer the question: anyone is everywhere, and the sky follows along.
where does the warzone stay?
here we encounter a ratified force. warzone is but a congestion of surprises, mixed with whimsy or analogue propriety, to address situations that are not ‘in hand’. once again the universe must be boiled down to hardened arrangements. the warzone remains still.
in traveling these verities, which are inroads or pavement indications, what shall we carry with us?
turbid front money, your realm, pieces, short range missile shapes, slaps, hearty laughter, canned arrow memory, a gushing platitude, sparkling adages, a mindless thrum.
is heresy and victuals the same thing?
yes, and full of gumption, too. remember that the poor enact their own rules, sinking ever so, and a thousand times or more. please maintain your wits as you proceed!
Squid Factory Job
there's no data as hard as corpses
Greek composers are rely on their web
to unleash the unbridled rapture
Doug colloquially refers to this as
n¤nsectarian tapping
asecretarycould not establish aquid pro
pheromones to avoid the sensitive
and hysterical Squid
why don't you take
hairy lessons from an octopus
the mantle is big
the squelch let loose
the spotter gets shot
Worms, etc, have eye spots
designed for high school and
middle school science
giant squid that is missing some of its parts
allow students to identify
internal and external anatomy
sensitive squid detectors learn alarming lessons
about men and boys from the well
"Oh, I feel fine" says the squid "OK" says Bob
Paris Hilton and Company are
everything you imagine doing
Greek composers are rely on their web
to unleash the unbridled rapture
Doug colloquially refers to this as
n¤nsectarian tapping
asecretarycould not establish aquid pro
pheromones to avoid the sensitive
and hysterical Squid
why don't you take
hairy lessons from an octopus
the mantle is big
the squelch let loose
the spotter gets shot
Worms, etc, have eye spots
designed for high school and
middle school science
giant squid that is missing some of its parts
allow students to identify
internal and external anatomy
sensitive squid detectors learn alarming lessons
about men and boys from the well
"Oh, I feel fine" says the squid "OK" says Bob
Paris Hilton and Company are
everything you imagine doing
On how it is to be bored
I used to carry myself in
a plastic bag
unaware of my youthful errors,
or the way my corners tucked in~
braced from the emptying heavens.
Longing
to be gathered in your colossal arms
so you can smooth out the
wrinkles of my skin,
and pull echoes from my hair.
I remember the stillness,
I was blank~
with a dull-eyed gaze.
At least
days marvelled
when jolly carrots
soared in me.
a plastic bag
unaware of my youthful errors,
or the way my corners tucked in~
braced from the emptying heavens.
Longing
to be gathered in your colossal arms
so you can smooth out the
wrinkles of my skin,
and pull echoes from my hair.
I remember the stillness,
I was blank~
with a dull-eyed gaze.
At least
days marvelled
when jolly carrots
soared in me.
Gamera Gets an Injunction
And now i watch it all go down in flames,
And trees of altered mien parade the change.
Which of us knows, which of us deeply knows
While zooming along in grim array and flush
With power-over? Our soundtracks pour. The tap
Seems endless, of a thousand twinkling charms,
And nothing we take has lasting consequence.
We can even smash our toys if so we're minded.
One more Starbucks travel cup i crush
Into a full car-trashbag, as the radio
Croons a lugubrious Nineties hit. I'm hoping
I can hoof it through one more stint with this stark knowledge,
Scant help, and the season's share of blame.
And trees of altered mien parade the change.
Which of us knows, which of us deeply knows
While zooming along in grim array and flush
With power-over? Our soundtracks pour. The tap
Seems endless, of a thousand twinkling charms,
And nothing we take has lasting consequence.
We can even smash our toys if so we're minded.
One more Starbucks travel cup i crush
Into a full car-trashbag, as the radio
Croons a lugubrious Nineties hit. I'm hoping
I can hoof it through one more stint with this stark knowledge,
Scant help, and the season's share of blame.
fORMlESS fORM
Francis Bacon, the painter not the miscreant, was one, if not the best, religious painter of the twentieth century. Turnkey heads and stopped up rectories, no two images alike. With an abattoir’s eye for slaughter and mincing, Bacon reinvented how we see the human form, formless and minced up into oedipal pieces, flocculent skin; a polyglots reaction to monotheistic despotism. No two cockfights the same, the one always pecking and folding into the other, creating a bloody fucking mess of it. Now that’s art, nothing less will ever do. It’s still raining like a robber outside, gunmetal barrel gray, cumulous, skulking and monotheistic. I wrote a childish piece of crap for the Norman Bethune College newspaper when I was a sophomore with equally sophomoric philosophical ideals and all the symptoms of middle-stage alcoholism. Something I called ‘Rain Thoughts’, a painfully immature recasting of the Nietzschean concept of the Herd Mentality rife with castration innuendoes and Oedipal out you frontoes. What have I to say for myself you might ask, not a damn fucking thing, that’s what? So fuck off and be done with it.
The Shrike
the shrike hooks frogs
and small birds
on pike and spit
flesh gritting from bone
a cruel Carpathian custom
impaling kin
on thistle and thorn
The Shrike
the shrike hooks frogs
and small birds
on pike and spit
flesh gritting from bone
a cruel Carpathian custom
impaling kin
on thistle and thorn
Gödel’s Wristwatch
a sclerotic mind inhibits
the simplest of calculus’s
subtractions and minuses
(Gödel’s wristwatch)
in the topknot of my skull
Anvil of the Hips
when the hammer hits the base
of the spine
the anvil of the hips chimes
Metempsychosis
metempsychosis
the transmigration
of hogsheads
a sclerotic mind inhibits
the simplest of calculus’s
subtractions and minuses
(Gödel’s wristwatch)
in the topknot of my skull
Anvil of the Hips
when the hammer hits the base
of the spine
the anvil of the hips chimes
Metempsychosis
metempsychosis
the transmigration
of hogsheads
Anyone Fed Up with Lack of Originality?
the "Good old days" had an equatable amount
of crap grown over extorted
Django's energy meter shows the amplitude
of a great white shark on a mission
to protect your home
the output signal has Sabata's sunlight allergy
That guy Lucian doesn't have dark matter
Aaron is totally screwed at night
read my blog for my rants on the subject
of "sequelitis" ooooh you're sooo mighty
young Goku searches for the seven
mystical dragon balls
Play some to learn the level....Die....
Play some to learn the level....Die....
Play some to learn the level....Die....
Vegeta is dead (again) and very unhappy
about a certain father
It started with his space pod
breaking down in deep space
a sinister cabal is taking control
one by one of the great monsters
George and Barbara Bush
with their bikes near the Forbidden
Saddam Hussein was born Wooden Chicken
the man named George Bush reminds us
uncomfortably of our descent
from politically aware primates
of crap grown over extorted
Django's energy meter shows the amplitude
of a great white shark on a mission
to protect your home
the output signal has Sabata's sunlight allergy
That guy Lucian doesn't have dark matter
Aaron is totally screwed at night
read my blog for my rants on the subject
of "sequelitis" ooooh you're sooo mighty
young Goku searches for the seven
mystical dragon balls
Play some to learn the level....Die....
Play some to learn the level....Die....
Play some to learn the level....Die....
Vegeta is dead (again) and very unhappy
about a certain father
It started with his space pod
breaking down in deep space
a sinister cabal is taking control
one by one of the great monsters
George and Barbara Bush
with their bikes near the Forbidden
Saddam Hussein was born Wooden Chicken
the man named George Bush reminds us
uncomfortably of our descent
from politically aware primates
"Goblin Immortality"
Moon. And aftershock. How the mystery travels
isn't important. Anyway, it goes
through you and me, and walls, in keen disguise;
our bodies barely privy to its revels.
Moon. Is that a name? And when it wanders
so do our frenzies wander, Darfur camp
where last we met, and said the one escape
for either of us might entail doc shredders.
You rise, the Moon between us. Lights a trail
all clowns dissolve upon, fot they must keep
fitful vigil. Here, the dying sing
as twilight more than steals among warm cinders,
and someone in a whitecoat whose control
the valley has not seen, betrays the Moon.
Sweet Green
Sweet green
Sweeter flower
Strong power
but how great
that the flower
should grow by faith
Sweeter flower
Strong power
but how great
that the flower
should grow by faith
Distant Mountains
distant mountains
as we row through the water
fish jump to meet us
Lauryn Bennett
The above is one from Elmfield Primary in Newton Aycliffe, County Durham, UK. A 10 year old's first haiku.
More can be seen here:
THE WHITE MOON
Part of Little Onion's Summer Tour 2006. I really do feel that I learn so much from the children in the time spent with them thinking, writing and laughing.
as we row through the water
fish jump to meet us
Lauryn Bennett
The above is one from Elmfield Primary in Newton Aycliffe, County Durham, UK. A 10 year old's first haiku.
More can be seen here:
THE WHITE MOON
Part of Little Onion's Summer Tour 2006. I really do feel that I learn so much from the children in the time spent with them thinking, writing and laughing.
That Way, Believe Me
Then my memoirs become important.
Then mountain had time. Did I have connection?
Excellent English Sherpa and Tundra Sherpa, around the fire (it looks like fire, anyway) that saves us. And we separately dream of that cold and frank discussion, such mountain. We survived the glum planning stage and wink, Paris Hilton hit the top. The image of all Paris Hiltons struggles beyond our encampment, into the very night we left safely. Excellent English laughs at fact tossed lightly. Tundra quieter has time to watch the fire. I'm writing the memoir of my voice, with a little tell of Sherpa. But am I as distant as that Paris Hilton smile (payable on the first of the month)? Am I free of falling down? Trust in the gravity of saying exactly what the memoir says. Slightly cheated maybe by wishing to hold on...
death has never been perfect. Mallory's body looks almost fresh and a little distressed. You would too, lingering as you do.
Then mountain had time. Did I have connection?
Excellent English Sherpa and Tundra Sherpa, around the fire (it looks like fire, anyway) that saves us. And we separately dream of that cold and frank discussion, such mountain. We survived the glum planning stage and wink, Paris Hilton hit the top. The image of all Paris Hiltons struggles beyond our encampment, into the very night we left safely. Excellent English laughs at fact tossed lightly. Tundra quieter has time to watch the fire. I'm writing the memoir of my voice, with a little tell of Sherpa. But am I as distant as that Paris Hilton smile (payable on the first of the month)? Am I free of falling down? Trust in the gravity of saying exactly what the memoir says. Slightly cheated maybe by wishing to hold on...
death has never been perfect. Mallory's body looks almost fresh and a little distressed. You would too, lingering as you do.
cHOLERA and lITHOTRIPSY
I Drunk
I drink whatever comes down the pike, gin, vodka, gimlets, lime cordial in stouts and lagers and bottom-self Sherries and Ports, the two seemingly indistinguishable except for the colour. A cheap Sherry is generally a pale, russet red, Port, a tinge lighter and less russet, yet in consistency identical to Sherry and other vintner’s low-end putrefaction. I drink at sun up, midday, and sunset. I drink when I’m happy, sad, or simply disaffected with my life and those other’s that seem identical to mine; yet differ in colour, taste and consistency. I once thought I had cholera, but it was a simple cramping in my side, under the fourth and fifth rid where my gallbladder sits. There are stones in there, so I’ve been told, and in my right kidney, urethra and piss-bladder. I have had three surgical procedures, one called keyhole surgery, and three rounds of lithotripsy to pound the stones into smithereens. The stone fragments are then pissed into a sieve, which you then have to poke around in with a Popsicle stick gathering up what you have pissed out. These odds and ends are then brought to the chemist, whose job it is to determine what exactly the stones are made of; they’re consistency and geological stratum. I figure they’re made up of putrefied grape skins and tannins; perhaps some lime cordial and stout ales.
When I have money, which I seldom do, I treat myself to imported beers and a bottle of Teachers or Old Grouse. I seldom use a glass, as I find it slows down the imbibing process, and requires an eye-hand coordination that mystifies me once I’ve started the drinking process. I have always dreamt of going to Mexico, where I could drink myself into a coma on Tic-Tac and real Mexican Mescal, the kind with the worm dead at the bottom of the bottle. They say that the worm is so saturated with mescal, the drug, not the liquor, that once eaten it can cause such horrid hallucinations that many people chew their own fingers off or eat dirt thinking its tamale or some Mexican delicacy. Geoffrey, the consul general in Lowry’s Under the Volcano, eats mescal worms like their going out of style, catching them between his front teeth, then biting them in half, thereby making the digestive process that much quicker. I once ate a worm when I was a kid, on a dare from this guy named Pete Peters who had a cleft palate and pyorrhea. It tasted like dirt and slim, if slime has a taste of its own to begin with, which I very much doubt it does. I have drank in the backseat of moving cars, in airplanes cruising at high altitudes, in chugging trains with bar cars and train stewards, and in closets, boot rooms and under a child’s play structure during a torrential late summer rainstorm somewhere in a city I now forget where.
I have vomited with such force of nature that the corrugated soft tissues in my throat landed in a placental bobble in the bathroom sink, which I was leaning against while straddling the toilet trying to urinate at the same time as I was throwing up. I have split the skin on the bridge of my nose, and burst blood vessels in the whites and sclera of my eyes. I once almost detached a retina, but was lucky enough to have eye drops and surgical gauze handy at the time. Sometimes I would get such horrible cramps in my side and in the knotted muscles in my thighs and calves that I would have to stand for at least half an hour in a scalding hot shower to assuage the pain and torment.
I would fish throw friend’s pockets when they weren’t looking, looking for spare change or a five-dollar bill that had gone forgotten. I would sell whatever I had, even things I needed, like bus tickets and food stamps, to scrounge enough for a King Can or a twenty-sixer of Sherry or Port, the two virtually interchangeable and screw topped with a plastic sleeve around the neck. I would have drunken cat’s urine, had I thought it had alcohol in it and would go down quickly and with minimal burning. I don’t drink any longer, but still have vivid memories, sometimes flashbacks, that leave me with a sick, ruinous taste at the back of my throat.
I drink whatever comes down the pike, gin, vodka, gimlets, lime cordial in stouts and lagers and bottom-self Sherries and Ports, the two seemingly indistinguishable except for the colour. A cheap Sherry is generally a pale, russet red, Port, a tinge lighter and less russet, yet in consistency identical to Sherry and other vintner’s low-end putrefaction. I drink at sun up, midday, and sunset. I drink when I’m happy, sad, or simply disaffected with my life and those other’s that seem identical to mine; yet differ in colour, taste and consistency. I once thought I had cholera, but it was a simple cramping in my side, under the fourth and fifth rid where my gallbladder sits. There are stones in there, so I’ve been told, and in my right kidney, urethra and piss-bladder. I have had three surgical procedures, one called keyhole surgery, and three rounds of lithotripsy to pound the stones into smithereens. The stone fragments are then pissed into a sieve, which you then have to poke around in with a Popsicle stick gathering up what you have pissed out. These odds and ends are then brought to the chemist, whose job it is to determine what exactly the stones are made of; they’re consistency and geological stratum. I figure they’re made up of putrefied grape skins and tannins; perhaps some lime cordial and stout ales.
When I have money, which I seldom do, I treat myself to imported beers and a bottle of Teachers or Old Grouse. I seldom use a glass, as I find it slows down the imbibing process, and requires an eye-hand coordination that mystifies me once I’ve started the drinking process. I have always dreamt of going to Mexico, where I could drink myself into a coma on Tic-Tac and real Mexican Mescal, the kind with the worm dead at the bottom of the bottle. They say that the worm is so saturated with mescal, the drug, not the liquor, that once eaten it can cause such horrid hallucinations that many people chew their own fingers off or eat dirt thinking its tamale or some Mexican delicacy. Geoffrey, the consul general in Lowry’s Under the Volcano, eats mescal worms like their going out of style, catching them between his front teeth, then biting them in half, thereby making the digestive process that much quicker. I once ate a worm when I was a kid, on a dare from this guy named Pete Peters who had a cleft palate and pyorrhea. It tasted like dirt and slim, if slime has a taste of its own to begin with, which I very much doubt it does. I have drank in the backseat of moving cars, in airplanes cruising at high altitudes, in chugging trains with bar cars and train stewards, and in closets, boot rooms and under a child’s play structure during a torrential late summer rainstorm somewhere in a city I now forget where.
I have vomited with such force of nature that the corrugated soft tissues in my throat landed in a placental bobble in the bathroom sink, which I was leaning against while straddling the toilet trying to urinate at the same time as I was throwing up. I have split the skin on the bridge of my nose, and burst blood vessels in the whites and sclera of my eyes. I once almost detached a retina, but was lucky enough to have eye drops and surgical gauze handy at the time. Sometimes I would get such horrible cramps in my side and in the knotted muscles in my thighs and calves that I would have to stand for at least half an hour in a scalding hot shower to assuage the pain and torment.
I would fish throw friend’s pockets when they weren’t looking, looking for spare change or a five-dollar bill that had gone forgotten. I would sell whatever I had, even things I needed, like bus tickets and food stamps, to scrounge enough for a King Can or a twenty-sixer of Sherry or Port, the two virtually interchangeable and screw topped with a plastic sleeve around the neck. I would have drunken cat’s urine, had I thought it had alcohol in it and would go down quickly and with minimal burning. I don’t drink any longer, but still have vivid memories, sometimes flashbacks, that leave me with a sick, ruinous taste at the back of my throat.
Of The Leg
in the camps
it was not uncommon
to incur a phlegmon
which had to be incised
from the skink of the leg bone
so deep had it burrowed
and infested
that no ferric or compress
of either Lye
or iodine
could scour free the stink
that opened into
the tissues and marrow
of the leg
in the camps
it was not uncommon
to incur a phlegmon
which had to be incised
from the skink of the leg bone
so deep had it burrowed
and infested
that no ferric or compress
of either Lye
or iodine
could scour free the stink
that opened into
the tissues and marrow
of the leg
Most People
most people
don’t (want)
their head stove in
nor (for that matter)
their feet, toes
or fingers
I (however)
not being of sane
mind or thinking
would welcome
a (sharp) blow
to the head, or
a hard shoe
(to the top) of my foot
most people
don’t (want)
their head stove in
nor (for that matter)
their feet, toes
or fingers
I (however)
not being of sane
mind or thinking
would welcome
a (sharp) blow
to the head, or
a hard shoe
(to the top) of my foot
Interlude
1. A list of time.
2. Breaks with recycling society man.
3. The connection of cement, the stones and the horizon.
4. Containers dance on the purse.
5. All fills of advertising flowers.
6. Buttocks crament boards until the end.
7. Chlorinated wave of the watchtowers.
8. Three, this mirror where the planet is branned.
9. All the trees, in their plastic armour, still fight.
10. Weave themselves the moments with each conscience.
paranoid critical desiring machines
its a method first turn the
'noun' that makes you object
into the verb
of method
free yourself of poetry
. if it is possible to imagine abody alive
before death, then perhaps' life's the farce
undone by the stage of its play.
bows off to desire-motocycles
not seeing
its mask.
"Richter wrote
All the little holes and cavities that we [avant-garde artists] had formerly occupied by proxy were no longer to be seen. ‘They are deep down inside,’ Schwitters explained. They were concealed by the
monstrous growth of the column, covered by other sculptura
l excrescence, new people,
new shapes, colors, and details.6"
Little holes
like plots of politics
pillories of death wishes
judgements of moralisms
spashing shites of heap.
"I had no love for the death's heads hussars"
there is plenty to find already 'out there in here' as what is the
le desastre
finangle the escape not the repeat
or ObviOus.
'In a short essay entitled “Balance Sheet—Program for Desiring-machines,” (1977), addended to the 1997 French edition of Anti-Oedipe,17 Gilles Deleuze and Félix Guattari refer to Kurt Schwitters’ Merzbau,18 as “the desiring house, the house machine of Kurt Schwitters which sabotages and destroys itself, where its constructions and the beginning of its destruction are indistinguishable.” 19
“machine.”
scraps and residua, or chance relations between elements ultimately distinct.
It is “the un-connective connection of autonomous structures…that make it possible to define desiring-machines as the presence of such chance relations within the machine itself.”
here the mask 's fhallen
over the valykrrye of hatred
she dons the coat of her burqua
it is love love
up hiked hill and pate.
"I nail my pictures together,” Schwitters’
Nail Mail yer lingos
slang argot
linguals
as catty china machines bay the hounding of
cliche?
what somber set is this?
can it belch the funeral of death?
.
come,
come, there is no, subjectivity left.
Yer're better.
------------------------==================================================
Evacuate the Mountain
Bent over our last days, not overmuch oxygen, nothing with which to melt snow, oh how we wish for wholesome entertainment. Tom Cruise sports thru all that noise for the good of an industry in shambles, how could we think to miss that? A yeti from somewhere joins us, Tunda, Excellent English and me. Is death so far away? Municipal bonds think of future as a proper place for others. That's canny marketing. Yeti has a bottle of rum, it looks like. Who cares what exactly, as long as it's fire, which it is. Soon we're more or less naked, in the fastest fury ever to make the weather report. How many more will die on this slope? Easy: just enough to broach the subject. Something's wrong, you see. The program wobbled something fierce, a blistering call thru the night, desperate plans to undercut the competition, and pension funds as a way to sneak across the border. We'll be rich in a sententious second is the gamble in mind. Armed and buttery with the idea of success, it all makes a great headline. Now we've got the makeup of heroes in our midst. We are four who can provide leadership in a time of distraction. A bracing climb in airlessness is a damn good story. Marketing eats this plum with vigour. R&D needs more mayhem along the lines of several great stories already told and there to tell again. Let's grasp some beers, not the pressure off the mountain, and make this thing go. And that was the cycle pursuing our own vestigal interests. We bear this prehensile necessity with us, you see. It has the singing voice of Paris Hilton, and the rockstrewn path of Tom Cruise. Their rocket already left. We're stationed for the next satellite call. It don't get better but it's pretty great. Iran has decided to wed nuclear emphasis to their global interests. Fair's fair, mostly. Ours of the united call just developed a counter slogan. We have the ninjas to work the shadows, and the best static commercially available. Our nation has Nepalese for ground cover. A miasmic planting of Tibetan wonder in the clouds suffices for us as well, we're a determined lot. As are they in their national suits and wicked wrench. There's no slowdown as the slope pulls us to civilized rendering. Sherpas bring us tea, share anecdotes with yeti, and add to the combinations. We smoke cigarettes of great political intent, not having to wash our hands at all. In time, the greatest suspicion returns. We're home, book rights safely in hand. Tundra, Excellent English and I are instantly the names that you just spoke. Paris Hilton washes our floor, and Tom Cruise washes her. Do you see how excellently we survived? The majestic mountain has a t-shirt in its heart.
kAsPaR CraB __2Two Two.+ Three tree
InterView: Is it true MisteR Duffy you saunter like a crab, creep like a wolf, sham like a shem, mem like a reb, and sling like a smiling simile across the brook of your neck.
Duffy: when I got my first canadadadada grant I was very broke I had 43 kids and no friends, and 4000 wives. something was rong-rong and we could not even get welfare!!
Imagine how we lived!
like animals with tropes in our brains!
and on top of that!
we had nothing but our holes!
Robert DeNiro walks "like" a crab in a certain film sequence; but, he says, it is not a question of his imitating a crab; it is a question of making something that has to do with the crab enter into composition with the image, with the speed of the image.
—Deleuze and Guattari, AThousand Plateaus
______________________________
|||
when we met Arp we was rich
we had nothing left but glances
she was a friend of Welfare and Tzara
they were both characters in my book
I was told they could not be
as they had apparently no 'inward'
life as in the books so called of
G. Eliot . well when Darling Daintty
foot met Mona she was very good with
Welfare and Tzara. Tzara had a mother
and her name was Me, or Mether.
So. you could see. Losing the
game was a metaphysical coup of puck.
Yes, I got pregnant with Hans child.
Immaculate reception.
I am the lover.
Come to my head. of Lover . Heads..S..S...SSS.
2
Mister Duffy: Pleas!E Reply to the Questions!!!
Interviewer Shouts screams hauls ass off.
Stage.
Duffy come to me with oats and fulgurant flowrS
3
come and meet wife
we married two year
now.
got umpeen baby
boom.
4
shit she my name.
where nappy???
5
Welfare get over here! will you!!!
wear did you go,
with yer threads and bootykins!
6
Shit yer face
Arp go home.
7
Henry has an ass.
a borrowed donkey is her name.
she has haunted houses to live in.
one daya blog got her name.
she was him.
|||||||||||||||||||||||| ||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||
Duffy: when I got my first canadadadada grant I was very broke I had 43 kids and no friends, and 4000 wives. something was rong-rong and we could not even get welfare!!
Imagine how we lived!
like animals with tropes in our brains!
and on top of that!
we had nothing but our holes!
Robert DeNiro walks "like" a crab in a certain film sequence; but, he says, it is not a question of his imitating a crab; it is a question of making something that has to do with the crab enter into composition with the image, with the speed of the image.
—Deleuze and Guattari, AThousand Plateaus
______________________________
alas alasous m alas our good kaspar is dead. goodness
gracie
kaspar is
dead.||||
||||||
arp HanS ArP (see footnote)
http://www.peak.org
/~dadaist/English
/Graphics/arp.html
|||
when we met Arp we was rich
we had nothing left but glances
she was a friend of Welfare and Tzara
they were both characters in my book
I was told they could not be
as they had apparently no 'inward'
life as in the books so called of
G. Eliot . well when Darling Daintty
foot met Mona she was very good with
Welfare and Tzara. Tzara had a mother
and her name was Me, or Mether.
So. you could see. Losing the
game was a metaphysical coup of puck.
Yes, I got pregnant with Hans child.
Immaculate reception.
I am the lover.
Come to my head. of Lover . Heads..S..S...SSS.
2
Mister Duffy: Pleas!E Reply to the Questions!!!
Interviewer Shouts screams hauls ass off.
Stage.
Duffy come to me with oats and fulgurant flowrS
3
come and meet wife
we married two year
now.
got umpeen baby
boom.
4
shit she my name.
where nappy???
5
Welfare get over here! will you!!!
wear did you go,
with yer threads and bootykins!
6
Shit yer face
Arp go home.
7
Henry has an ass.
a borrowed donkey is her name.
she has haunted houses to live in.
one daya blog got her name.
she was him.
|||||||||||||||||||||||| ||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||
Miste Duffy can U send me a picture please?
No, I did. You said you dont love my face.
but its a fadoface.
a visage to grander with.
Fards
farandole
.
___________________No, I did. You said you dont love my face.
but its a fadoface.
a visage to grander with.
Fards
farandole
.
1.Grace was the name of a woman
who walked around naked on the farm.
2. the 'farm' was the name of a hippy
commune where we lived.
3. i was 18.
4. really?
5. am I pretty?
6. No, yer Better.
_____________
what year did all this take
place? in 5900 B.C.E.
I think it s called
B. C. stands for Before Clifford
A.D. signals After Duffy.
|||||||||||||||
U have a big ego?
she does not have an ego
shes many
knots an ego.
Loves her name.
||||||||||||
her name is character.
who walked around naked on the farm.
2. the 'farm' was the name of a hippy
commune where we lived.
3. i was 18.
4. really?
5. am I pretty?
6. No, yer Better.
_____________
what year did all this take
place? in 5900 B.C.E.
I think it s called
B. C. stands for Before Clifford
A.D. signals After Duffy.
|||||||||||||||
U have a big ego?
she does not have an ego
shes many
knots an ego.
Loves her name.
||||||||||||
her name is character.
Why Boast Thou Thyself
Why boast thou thyself
In mischief upon the earth.
Why do You fear the night
Full, filled of last longing toward
The righteous doing of my hands.
Why our boastful prayers
Are caught between our cupped hands
And can not reach God.
In mischief upon the earth.
Why do You fear the night
Full, filled of last longing toward
The righteous doing of my hands.
Why our boastful prayers
Are caught between our cupped hands
And can not reach God.
hORSEhAIR cUMBER
The Reading of
She sat, sitting, with her legs tucked into the hove of her shirts, corduroy, camel’s skin, some unidentifiable cotton serge, bought, most likely, at Zellers or Miracle Mart. A bevel, an edginess, that demanded attention. An anticipation that the Torah might be read, deconstructed, transubstantiated, retextualized, then signed by the messianic hand of reason. Acumen, perspicuity, an oblique anxiety, tome-mercantilism, sullying the horsehair cushion cushioning the cumber in the hollow bone-work of the buttocks. A coffee-tableau, architectonics, macramé, savant stitching and quiltwork. Waiting for the soothsayer to proffer a polite answer to question: question and answer, interpersonal depersonalization. Something’s should not be deconstruction, the mouth, the ear, the flocculent awl of the labrum. Best to leave some things as they are, or are wont to be are.
We, all of us, learned to make paper from scratch, with wet papyrus and cork-reed, and an offset-press that smoothed the paper to a fine sheet of writer’s mead. Not balled-up newsprint bartered and haggled for behind the Cantors, or in the back alleyway of the Steinberg’s, where one can purchase, at wholesale, bagel-thins and pumpernickel melbas. The creamery cheese, of course, is retail. We, all of us, saw the poster in the front window of the Cantor’s Bakery proclaiming, ‘You don’t have to be orthodox to eat bagels’, which to us, and perhaps we alone, meant Winnebegos. Seldom do I read what is fashionable, first person’s written in a schoolgirl’s vernacular, all that pubescent angst, caponized cocks, nervous ticking, youthful travelogues. I’d rather be interned, mortared, in Dante’s hell, eyes frozen wide open, Dis picking at my oculus’, than read about what you did, or didn’t do, on your summer vacation in Greece, or hell, for that matter.
Of Tongue
tongue (clacking)
cheek clacking
(tongue)
cheek (clacking)
tongue clacking
(cheek)
and tongue cheek and spit and clack of tongue
against roof clacking spit tongue and cheek
tongue of bone and of spit and of chalk (clacking)
She sat, sitting, with her legs tucked into the hove of her shirts, corduroy, camel’s skin, some unidentifiable cotton serge, bought, most likely, at Zellers or Miracle Mart. A bevel, an edginess, that demanded attention. An anticipation that the Torah might be read, deconstructed, transubstantiated, retextualized, then signed by the messianic hand of reason. Acumen, perspicuity, an oblique anxiety, tome-mercantilism, sullying the horsehair cushion cushioning the cumber in the hollow bone-work of the buttocks. A coffee-tableau, architectonics, macramé, savant stitching and quiltwork. Waiting for the soothsayer to proffer a polite answer to question: question and answer, interpersonal depersonalization. Something’s should not be deconstruction, the mouth, the ear, the flocculent awl of the labrum. Best to leave some things as they are, or are wont to be are.
We, all of us, learned to make paper from scratch, with wet papyrus and cork-reed, and an offset-press that smoothed the paper to a fine sheet of writer’s mead. Not balled-up newsprint bartered and haggled for behind the Cantors, or in the back alleyway of the Steinberg’s, where one can purchase, at wholesale, bagel-thins and pumpernickel melbas. The creamery cheese, of course, is retail. We, all of us, saw the poster in the front window of the Cantor’s Bakery proclaiming, ‘You don’t have to be orthodox to eat bagels’, which to us, and perhaps we alone, meant Winnebegos. Seldom do I read what is fashionable, first person’s written in a schoolgirl’s vernacular, all that pubescent angst, caponized cocks, nervous ticking, youthful travelogues. I’d rather be interned, mortared, in Dante’s hell, eyes frozen wide open, Dis picking at my oculus’, than read about what you did, or didn’t do, on your summer vacation in Greece, or hell, for that matter.
Of Tongue
tongue (clacking)
cheek clacking
(tongue)
cheek (clacking)
tongue clacking
(cheek)
and tongue cheek and spit and clack of tongue
against roof clacking spit tongue and cheek
tongue of bone and of spit and of chalk (clacking)
Red Currants
there is a carnival, where mischievous children
dance like Cossacks, under streamers of red currants
sticky apples, caramel balls, cornhusks and scarecrows
a moon splintered, assenting to nothing, defending nothing
signifying nothing, but perhaps, sticky apples, and
caramel balls, scarecrows cawing, streamers red as currents
when mischievous children, dancing like Cossacks, pull at the
moon, splintered and assenting to nothing, defenseless
kicking the light, like Cassocks, mouths sticky and sneering
forcing the light, refracted in rounded cheeks, sneering
to cast its bitter shadow, onto streamers of red currants
where there is a carnival, assenting to a playfulness, where
little devils, dancing like Cossacks, scare scarecrows, cawing
kicking the splinters of light, screaming, from a jealous moon
there is a carnival, where mischievous children
dance like Cossacks, under streamers of red currants
sticky apples, caramel balls, cornhusks and scarecrows
a moon splintered, assenting to nothing, defending nothing
signifying nothing, but perhaps, sticky apples, and
caramel balls, scarecrows cawing, streamers red as currents
when mischievous children, dancing like Cossacks, pull at the
moon, splintered and assenting to nothing, defenseless
kicking the light, like Cassocks, mouths sticky and sneering
forcing the light, refracted in rounded cheeks, sneering
to cast its bitter shadow, onto streamers of red currants
where there is a carnival, assenting to a playfulness, where
little devils, dancing like Cossacks, scare scarecrows, cawing
kicking the splinters of light, screaming, from a jealous moon
The Flats behind Our House
I rode my bike on the flats
behind our house
my brother’s hair choused in the clip
of my spokes
Then Pisses
a dog yawps
then pisses down
the inseam of its leg
gods’ curs
preying on the sleepless
and wrought of mind
I rode my bike on the flats
behind our house
my brother’s hair choused in the clip
of my spokes
Then Pisses
a dog yawps
then pisses down
the inseam of its leg
gods’ curs
preying on the sleepless
and wrought of mind
A Very Short Poem
I am not a minstrel
nor a caster of doubt
just a simple philistine
God willing
I am not a minstrel
nor a caster of doubt
just a simple philistine
God willing
Colours of My Face
Susie was musing on
painters and abstract techniques
in a lulled voice of the 60's—
she said she could see the colours
of my face. I asked her how many
were there.
painters and abstract techniques
in a lulled voice of the 60's—
she said she could see the colours
of my face. I asked her how many
were there.
Bo_x of Duff
Well, so, I hang from the rafters. With Tennis Racket. Gumboots are filled
and greasy ol forearms to boot. Sauna? Face like a fire engine.
And still I can`t catch em bats. Whooooah.
Hold on. Mr. Duffy this is a good un.
John Stiles
and greasy ol forearms to boot. Sauna? Face like a fire engine.
And still I can`t catch em bats. Whooooah.
Hold on. Mr. Duffy this is a good un.
John Stiles
The Indo-Anglian Poet Muses
And what then is this tongue
Whose gene sequence was mapped in some Norwegian wood,
Aged and matured in German waters,
Fortified by encounters with the brood
Of Celtic dreams, the Norman and the Dane;
And here and there, the refracted remains
Of Roman chariotways and Grecian urns-
This strange achaeological site of the mind,
This strange goulash of geographies,
Of centuries; That in my brown-skinned
Hands thrusts the spade
With which I must excavate
Its vast cemetry of the laurelled dead,
And perhaps inspite of their angry glares
Must fill its words with the dust, the airs
Of my cities, so far removed
From te mist-licked grass of its home;
Must play upon its verbs and orchestrate
The million fractalled destinies
Of my country, that shall yet
Not listen, nor shall I be heard
Within the pages of western journals, for there I am
An usurper, a grotesque perverter of the word.
Neither of home, nor the far bank; I-
A bent Trishankoo in a semantic purgatory.
Whose gene sequence was mapped in some Norwegian wood,
Aged and matured in German waters,
Fortified by encounters with the brood
Of Celtic dreams, the Norman and the Dane;
And here and there, the refracted remains
Of Roman chariotways and Grecian urns-
This strange achaeological site of the mind,
This strange goulash of geographies,
Of centuries; That in my brown-skinned
Hands thrusts the spade
With which I must excavate
Its vast cemetry of the laurelled dead,
And perhaps inspite of their angry glares
Must fill its words with the dust, the airs
Of my cities, so far removed
From te mist-licked grass of its home;
Must play upon its verbs and orchestrate
The million fractalled destinies
Of my country, that shall yet
Not listen, nor shall I be heard
Within the pages of western journals, for there I am
An usurper, a grotesque perverter of the word.
Neither of home, nor the far bank; I-
A bent Trishankoo in a semantic purgatory.
An Afternoon Ballad
The afternoon's a pallid monochrome
Like dim memories of dream-grey seas;
Within the unkempt borders of my room
I toss and turn the pages of my Yeats,
While form a corner, in counterpoint, jazz tunes
In husky spirals climb the afternoon
Air, smelling of sultry southern nights,
Of smoky conversations in darkened bars;
Imagined in a high-contrast black and whitek
Set to a background score of street-cars
Now nameless, while the Irishman raves
Of faery horses trampling upon waves
In times now beyond imagining
Dream-wrapped druids mumble secret runes
Upon Tara's summit, to the High King;
Grim horsemen pass through the night and are gone.
Gone the trumpets wailing out a score
Note by note, as love walks out the door
In syncopated steps; Fitzgerald glides
Across shimmering cymbals, through the old
Georgia of her mind's countryside.
A sudden madness of sound enfolds
The New Orleans twilight's reverie
Like shadows of some danaan melody
That throbbed in the heart of James Connolly
From the Isles of the Young, as he played
His last act, aflame with ecstasy;
And then went upon the secret ways
Where ride the fierce Horsemen of the Night,
Upon the mountains wrapped in purple light.
But now a glimmering of sun breaks through
This haze of dreams, their flickering shadows pass
Out of mind; and on rain-wet wings go
Across the dream-drenched seas, a scent of loss
Lingers in the air that's now too plain,
But echoes of the Horsemen remain.
Like dim memories of dream-grey seas;
Within the unkempt borders of my room
I toss and turn the pages of my Yeats,
While form a corner, in counterpoint, jazz tunes
In husky spirals climb the afternoon
Air, smelling of sultry southern nights,
Of smoky conversations in darkened bars;
Imagined in a high-contrast black and whitek
Set to a background score of street-cars
Now nameless, while the Irishman raves
Of faery horses trampling upon waves
In times now beyond imagining
Dream-wrapped druids mumble secret runes
Upon Tara's summit, to the High King;
Grim horsemen pass through the night and are gone.
Gone the trumpets wailing out a score
Note by note, as love walks out the door
In syncopated steps; Fitzgerald glides
Across shimmering cymbals, through the old
Georgia of her mind's countryside.
A sudden madness of sound enfolds
The New Orleans twilight's reverie
Like shadows of some danaan melody
That throbbed in the heart of James Connolly
From the Isles of the Young, as he played
His last act, aflame with ecstasy;
And then went upon the secret ways
Where ride the fierce Horsemen of the Night,
Upon the mountains wrapped in purple light.
But now a glimmering of sun breaks through
This haze of dreams, their flickering shadows pass
Out of mind; and on rain-wet wings go
Across the dream-drenched seas, a scent of loss
Lingers in the air that's now too plain,
But echoes of the Horsemen remain.
The Dentist Said...
The dentist said your teeth were good but the gums were starting to recede and that could be a problem in the future. He said if this doesn't work you might need a mouth transplant.
Mother Gypsy
"And I wasn’t born simply to become bones!" —Arthur Rimbaud
I remember turning 6. Mother stepped smoothly into the room. A crystal ball in her hand. A black and purple dress waved around her body. Silver buckles clattered around her waist. Her hair, unnatural blonde, wild. I abandoned my project of wooden bones and glue, stood up, was told: Ask a silent question—a wish. I’ll tell you the answer.
....
Then she moved her hand all around the glass. Murmuring a sacred dialect. My eyes were as wild as dinosaurs.
Tainted Epiphany
Unicorns
Don’t let the unicorns get me
They chase me and haunt me
With their magical horns and
Dreamy manes like rainbows
With one swipe, one firm contact
Their pounding hooves echoing
Torment and melancholy with ease
Murder
Kill the alabaster nightmares
My subconscious tuning fork
Tethering me to plain truth
Always nesting by the window
Accepting the skin without question
Loyal and enduring flock of scars
Not beguiled by flawless snow
Save It Here, Please
Yes, we saw the star. It was brilliant, looming on the slope. Everest needs these kinds of experiential doo wah, exciting the temperate in the shadow of mindfulness. Paris Hilton in her yeti clothes came down a brightness we would have moments to share. Our death cannot reason with all apparent notices. Tundra, Excellent English and I are fraught with the terrible quest, which is just a trip down the lane and maybe back. What is our modesty in the face of economic clime? We want our position met as thoroughly as Paris Hilton in her tent of fur. She reminds us, just by staring blankly, that so much more remains to the quiz. Shall we answer with assurance, like taking a beacon from our pack and signaling rescue missions from far and wide? I don't know. We took our quorum together and discussed, but then the snow seemed like time, and the wind bore what seemed a reason for flight. Would we select a chasm into which, and for all time? It scares to think of. Yet trading has been furious, across the board and with all elements of society in the clutches. Wow, and we thought this was just a trick to see maximum in our neighbourhood! Paris Hilton (asterisk available upon request) bears the talk of exactly now or around the bend. Her jet leaves the summit in time for clouds, and it hearkens to the efforts of Tom Cruise, the decision of another mountain. In fact they take the air together, all the breath possible, and meanwhile we three struggle. Is that funny, with a blizzard? They're a nation or two, as means to ending, but we have this whole up-the-mountain-look-around-and-down to deal with. We're heroes in our minds, graduate to that, at least, you spectating presence. As hungry as we are, then here's a yeti just for us. Good lord, not to eat! I mean a yeti with a haversack, loaded for prime mealtime. We are friends because we are national. National Nepal, that is, tho falling into that hollowness. And Tibet, it's made of newspaper now. We saw booming buildings on the latest service of information (that was years ago 'officially'). Some people said (by doing) that the mountain was here, in flames and close enough, so out the window for the memory to resume. We received that, chastely but with effect. Then mountains grew, for all time if not for us. We had to decide, knowing that the machine had other ideas. Ideas are plenty, like a nerve in a finger tho the finger freezes. Is this the way of going on? A plane containing Paris Hilton and Tom Cruise cannot crash. The map says so. So we still live, tho cold like chances under lack of air. Something terrible is a part of anything else, to date, at least. Sherpas thought of pay scale, life abroad or among, then trouble if you seem to note a lack of division. Each world you see is each world, you see. It doesn't matter who remains, after all. Our kings and queens are doormats. Let us thank them just about now, inside the ticket of our moving on
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