I once spent about four months living under a bridge in western New York. During my time there I had hoped that I could extract some tolls from passers by, but no one ever stopped. I don’t blame them tho. There was a fog that was nearly impenetrable, and really who would stop for a guy in a troll suit with a sign that read: “Everything is Foreseeable.”
I was born without a vagina.
I once had an intensive letter writing exchange with Nietzsche. I was the void into which he spat. It got ugly quickly and I no longer answer his letters. I just let them pile up. At some point in the future, when I have enough letters, I will construct an idol.
I collect vintage hats. I do not wear the vintage hats. I keep them in boxes. I keep the boxes in other boxes in the basement behind some old shoes. I have thousands of them.
I woke up and went outside to find that my backyard had been replaced with a junkyard, but not any old junkyard. This junkyard was populated with the cars of famous (and some not so famous) former mobsters. There was a note tacked to my door that apologized for the inconvenience, and implored me to do the right thing and try and reform the cars.
When I was thirteen some gypsies came to our town and taught everyone a new dance. Now every year on a certain date a new record arrives at the local post-office and everyone packs into the town square to burn the record. The fire brings out the sweetest music.
Learning by Repetition
There have never been
enough balloons to do you justice.
Tuesday was no exception.
The rain left 12 Mylar hearts,
in screaming scarlet,
unpurchased.
And then the sun came out.
It always does, doesn't it?
Even at your funeral.
When reverend Smith stopped eulogizing,
the rain stopped, and made steam
from damp lashes and soaked shirts.
That day though, later,
there were balloons.
They rose till they nearly disappeared,
became periods in distant eyes, because
there wasn't strength or conviction enough
for exclamation marks.
No, I was weak and young and quiet.
Now I've learned as all children learn best.
I've been taught the lesson of repetition.
I have stacked my periods one atop the other,
one longer, standing taller, but both
equally lost to the expanse of empty arms
and blue skies and hopelessness.
I know now that you are gone.
Despite the release,
regardless of punctuation,
all that is left are two short stories
and the blank page.
So I will write your names,
over and over again, scatter them
to the winds of Autumn, and pray that,
like November leaf litter,
they become something fertile
and feed the springtime blooms
to become the rose corsage
pinned close to the heart
of another mother.
enough balloons to do you justice.
Tuesday was no exception.
The rain left 12 Mylar hearts,
in screaming scarlet,
unpurchased.
And then the sun came out.
It always does, doesn't it?
Even at your funeral.
When reverend Smith stopped eulogizing,
the rain stopped, and made steam
from damp lashes and soaked shirts.
That day though, later,
there were balloons.
They rose till they nearly disappeared,
became periods in distant eyes, because
there wasn't strength or conviction enough
for exclamation marks.
No, I was weak and young and quiet.
Now I've learned as all children learn best.
I've been taught the lesson of repetition.
I have stacked my periods one atop the other,
one longer, standing taller, but both
equally lost to the expanse of empty arms
and blue skies and hopelessness.
I know now that you are gone.
Despite the release,
regardless of punctuation,
all that is left are two short stories
and the blank page.
So I will write your names,
over and over again, scatter them
to the winds of Autumn, and pray that,
like November leaf litter,
they become something fertile
and feed the springtime blooms
to become the rose corsage
pinned close to the heart
of another mother.
Serbian-Born Inventor, America
America why don't you fuck up yourself?
don't you see me walking down Great Road?
that's my time, America. your funky dude
mishap bombs the island of all Iraqi
ingested. so you need to be empty?
America why don't you
fuck your own merde.
the simple answer you. your doctrine
seems like an especially worsted
wool suit. you make bananas of tripe,
you stick underwear on top,
you figure the negative.
don't you see that I got the mail today?
I was in America all along.
Mythbusters invented television, and I
saw America. don't you think you have
the author of Howl? why did you
name me Vietnam War?
I was not in time to excuse myself
when I heard of your correction.
America why don't you resume literature
not poetry and no more ideas.
America why don't you flood out more often.
America your age is showing.
America these pants are music.
America those pants die.
America all pants need something else.
America this is not really a possible thing
yet you insist that something comes.
didn't you see me near the post office?
did I have remaining soreness
if you could tell? might
satisfaction include division?
tired by the road on which I walked once,
I include America among definitions of mist.
anyone exhumes what they think of terrible traction.
better tires answer for lesser ones.
America really what's the egg of action?
do you need commas in your sentences?
America isn't it even fall in this area?
even the wind and something wet to think of.
America a whole of the poetry rides an awesome
comic book into futures of comic books and
the advice of many Stan Lee types.
are you especially ready when I make a
golfball reasonably insane?
why is the America in poems a shortage?
why is America stuffed with grainy pictures?
whose America snaps pictures on the edge
of bland bicycle pump? whose America matriculates
via hayfields marbled with bright ideas
for saving your tresses?
does gosh outdo golly, when you are at
home America? tell me of
Great Road again, thru the center
so called of the miracle of town. what
time is dinner America as you
eat each statue poured from a blitz.
Planet Detergent indicates huffing sounds
in toy paddle giving loss into granting.
America acts sad crank modest machine,
hours of tuning and tweaking,
no indication of destruction, your
linear activator gets cooking.
don't you see me walking down Great Road?
that's my time, America. your funky dude
mishap bombs the island of all Iraqi
ingested. so you need to be empty?
America why don't you
fuck your own merde.
the simple answer you. your doctrine
seems like an especially worsted
wool suit. you make bananas of tripe,
you stick underwear on top,
you figure the negative.
don't you see that I got the mail today?
I was in America all along.
Mythbusters invented television, and I
saw America. don't you think you have
the author of Howl? why did you
name me Vietnam War?
I was not in time to excuse myself
when I heard of your correction.
America why don't you resume literature
not poetry and no more ideas.
America why don't you flood out more often.
America your age is showing.
America these pants are music.
America those pants die.
America all pants need something else.
America this is not really a possible thing
yet you insist that something comes.
didn't you see me near the post office?
did I have remaining soreness
if you could tell? might
satisfaction include division?
tired by the road on which I walked once,
I include America among definitions of mist.
anyone exhumes what they think of terrible traction.
better tires answer for lesser ones.
America really what's the egg of action?
do you need commas in your sentences?
America isn't it even fall in this area?
even the wind and something wet to think of.
America a whole of the poetry rides an awesome
comic book into futures of comic books and
the advice of many Stan Lee types.
are you especially ready when I make a
golfball reasonably insane?
why is the America in poems a shortage?
why is America stuffed with grainy pictures?
whose America snaps pictures on the edge
of bland bicycle pump? whose America matriculates
via hayfields marbled with bright ideas
for saving your tresses?
does gosh outdo golly, when you are at
home America? tell me of
Great Road again, thru the center
so called of the miracle of town. what
time is dinner America as you
eat each statue poured from a blitz.
Planet Detergent indicates huffing sounds
in toy paddle giving loss into granting.
America acts sad crank modest machine,
hours of tuning and tweaking,
no indication of destruction, your
linear activator gets cooking.
dOCTOR aDLER'S fOOT
Two weeks before I met the inimical Sandor Ferenczi I ran into Alfred Alder and Rollo May, both of whom were wearing slip-on loafers, Doctor May a pair of ecru Hushpuppies and Doctor Adler a pair of orthopaedic lifts, the heel on the right shoe considerably superior to the left, which he dragged behind him like a jury mast, his teeth clenched to biting. When I asked Doctor Adler, which I did, against my better judgment, how he’d come up with the inferiority complex, he answered, ‘look at my damn foot, it’s a god awful mess.’ Doctor May, who at the time was busying himself with a fly that had alit on the bridge of his nose, swatting at it with great force of habit, said, ‘for the love of Oedipus, man, can’t you see the man is deformed?’ I considered swiping both Doctors’ hats, Doctor Adler’s a felt Panama with a wren’s foot hatband, and Doctor May’s, a less austere fedora with a silk pell-mell brim, but kicked Doctor Adler’s leg from under him, causing a great kafuffle and gesticulating of hands, and continued on down the sidewalk as if nothing out of the ordinary had occurred. I am a Freudian, after all, a preschooler without a bobbin or string, an eye-gouger, a Fort/Da gone terribly wrong.
Times New Roman/ New Roman Times
webside, is that website still
available, learning the protocol
for trance, microparticle stands
for world, fragmented data,
cternity, copy art banner, toss
it into the arena, what about
the unused portion, ape writes,
less ripe text, the staying pot,
colour seems more real, what
held you back, mank, the words
can still be read, did anyone
ever read any of it, there was a
day, what will get into a book,
a different way to get a word
out, you could go back and look,
available, learning the protocol
for trance, microparticle stands
for world, fragmented data,
cternity, copy art banner, toss
it into the arena, what about
the unused portion, ape writes,
less ripe text, the staying pot,
colour seems more real, what
held you back, mank, the words
can still be read, did anyone
ever read any of it, there was a
day, what will get into a book,
a different way to get a word
out, you could go back and look,
This Journey
I am a suitcase. My fractals aflame
fulgently. Hope must be a mine field.
A travel schedule of indelible shame.
I am a suitcase with fractals. Aflame
in bitter agony, I recall loves maim.
Tossed and turned, feelings reeled.
I am a suitcase with fractals aflame.
Effulgent hope. I’m my own mine field.
fulgently. Hope must be a mine field.
A travel schedule of indelible shame.
I am a suitcase with fractals. Aflame
in bitter agony, I recall loves maim.
Tossed and turned, feelings reeled.
I am a suitcase with fractals aflame.
Effulgent hope. I’m my own mine field.
Beat the Wicker
Goddammit Bob. Why must you be so cruel to me?
Oh. I see.
But do I have to re-order the entire document?
Are you serious? Those pesky clients. Why must they be so pesky?
Well that's sort of sad. Don't tell them I called them pesky.
So when do you need this?
That's impossible.
No.
It doesn't matter if it's impossible.
The definition of impossible is that it doesn't matter.
It's not?
That's the definition?
That's a little too philosophical for me. Anyway, that's not the point, the point is that this is freaking insane and it's going to take me a very long time.
Well, I would guess at least 18 hours.
No I can't do it that quickly.
Well. Umm. I'd rather sleep if that's what you mean.
Oh, well I suppose I can.
Yeah, no problem. I'll have to head over to Wal-Mart first and buy several cases of Red Bull, it's been a while since I did an all-nighter.
You know, it would have been nice if you told me about this earlier. Like yesterday. That's a good example of this earlier I speak of. It's earlier you see and it was yesterday.
Hello? Bob? I can't believe it. He fucking hung up on me.
/
Oh. I see.
But do I have to re-order the entire document?
Are you serious? Those pesky clients. Why must they be so pesky?
Well that's sort of sad. Don't tell them I called them pesky.
So when do you need this?
That's impossible.
No.
It doesn't matter if it's impossible.
The definition of impossible is that it doesn't matter.
It's not?
That's the definition?
That's a little too philosophical for me. Anyway, that's not the point, the point is that this is freaking insane and it's going to take me a very long time.
Well, I would guess at least 18 hours.
No I can't do it that quickly.
Well. Umm. I'd rather sleep if that's what you mean.
Oh, well I suppose I can.
Yeah, no problem. I'll have to head over to Wal-Mart first and buy several cases of Red Bull, it's been a while since I did an all-nighter.
You know, it would have been nice if you told me about this earlier. Like yesterday. That's a good example of this earlier I speak of. It's earlier you see and it was yesterday.
Hello? Bob? I can't believe it. He fucking hung up on me.
/
Mal au Coeur [l ♥ v e s i c k]
Beneath is BODY: fertile as totality, a sensory abdomen, your proton-pump progesterone dissolving into mine.
Who owns the beurocratic everyday? Material inserted from her night [vultures etc] into my crampy world matrix. Psychosomatic [incomplete] you are often scientific but attempt, diffusely, to exist within pagan counternarratives. In this ongoing laxative world there is deniable communal dependence, as well as tequila to lighten the mood. Antacids to linger in two subjects of division, professor to my thrush of longing, hoarding 90-95% of my anxiety, implications that aim hollow in bars and pubs, part-artist and moving towards menopause. I would swallow the nonrepresented content of your Darko days, only to be happily senseless and performing sexual processes. Your killing hound-dog and your neutralized soul and your crushed pituitary gland, all gone. Copyedited interpretations of your thoughts, cached. Clambering over to express mainstream [dis-]taste, you’re just frowning, unfamiliar with the art of groping. That gallery, though, was apparently the place where you chose to digest “life”, - [yoghurt, aeroplanes, all that shit] – and your boyfriend too with his tender impotent PM identity. Heart is now a network of scorched hair and dust and my cybermenstrual hormones are clots in the tufts, rotting in the reproducibility of my own rage and fear, merely the consequence of everyday poison and excess. Over-the-counter grids of doubt and omission. You have designed every action-still of my disintegration, chaque jour a blushing crucifixion of caffeinated artistry. Dream of us on the bed, experimenting with sensation ‘b’ and regurgitating prayers onto the duvet, far away from gestures of the clinical [both my puberty and your whitish-grey shadow of a pregnancy filed under discrete subdirectories] germinating information as “faith” and bathing in the acid light of migraines. Swabbed like political witches, bookmarkable and “yeasty”, mistakes blot our soft fridays. Small wet-body, made night-black, licked like Situationist candy. Body – body made from Teflon and seaweed-swaddling, 24 hour fibre people pricked by me and others. Bored of gross-outs and painful women. Alien tongue with a spearmint texture, fatty overtime fantasies, pillowhugging of course. In part would like to be neatly gone, no funeral-song or memory, in part would like to be grinding on buses or at least eat fibre products soaked in dull green dairy and really taste. Climax cut thyroid-wise, scratching out of own skin. And if I should return, washed up like some administrative necessity? Silent printer-friendly skin, a doorway of disgust, how HIV of you. Kneading incalculable flesh of us, stomping it into the ground – history, identity, all gone because there’s a live wire from calf to femur to kidney and lung, molar, pancreas, palate and cortex that’s buzzing you in neon and it’s never going to stop.
Desire – as is – all [indiscreteness], actually closer to a thin strain of song.
Who owns the beurocratic everyday? Material inserted from her night [vultures etc] into my crampy world matrix. Psychosomatic [incomplete] you are often scientific but attempt, diffusely, to exist within pagan counternarratives. In this ongoing laxative world there is deniable communal dependence, as well as tequila to lighten the mood. Antacids to linger in two subjects of division, professor to my thrush of longing, hoarding 90-95% of my anxiety, implications that aim hollow in bars and pubs, part-artist and moving towards menopause. I would swallow the nonrepresented content of your Darko days, only to be happily senseless and performing sexual processes. Your killing hound-dog and your neutralized soul and your crushed pituitary gland, all gone. Copyedited interpretations of your thoughts, cached. Clambering over to express mainstream [dis-]taste, you’re just frowning, unfamiliar with the art of groping. That gallery, though, was apparently the place where you chose to digest “life”, - [yoghurt, aeroplanes, all that shit] – and your boyfriend too with his tender impotent PM identity. Heart is now a network of scorched hair and dust and my cybermenstrual hormones are clots in the tufts, rotting in the reproducibility of my own rage and fear, merely the consequence of everyday poison and excess. Over-the-counter grids of doubt and omission. You have designed every action-still of my disintegration, chaque jour a blushing crucifixion of caffeinated artistry. Dream of us on the bed, experimenting with sensation ‘b’ and regurgitating prayers onto the duvet, far away from gestures of the clinical [both my puberty and your whitish-grey shadow of a pregnancy filed under discrete subdirectories] germinating information as “faith” and bathing in the acid light of migraines. Swabbed like political witches, bookmarkable and “yeasty”, mistakes blot our soft fridays. Small wet-body, made night-black, licked like Situationist candy. Body – body made from Teflon and seaweed-swaddling, 24 hour fibre people pricked by me and others. Bored of gross-outs and painful women. Alien tongue with a spearmint texture, fatty overtime fantasies, pillowhugging of course. In part would like to be neatly gone, no funeral-song or memory, in part would like to be grinding on buses or at least eat fibre products soaked in dull green dairy and really taste. Climax cut thyroid-wise, scratching out of own skin. And if I should return, washed up like some administrative necessity? Silent printer-friendly skin, a doorway of disgust, how HIV of you. Kneading incalculable flesh of us, stomping it into the ground – history, identity, all gone because there’s a live wire from calf to femur to kidney and lung, molar, pancreas, palate and cortex that’s buzzing you in neon and it’s never going to stop.
Desire – as is – all [indiscreteness], actually closer to a thin strain of song.
Nadia
It was a clear, calm day.
Nadia laughed as the warm, smooth hand loosely caressed her ankle. There was peace inside the cottage. A pussy purred contentedly in the sun, murmuring as though there were ten thousand souls in heavenly joy.
The window creaked open and Jason was startled at the forceful beat of a butterfly, as it fluttered in a gentle breeze. He could hear the sound of grasshoppers, and caught site of an oystercatcher in the field where the sheep were.
He was awakened by the ceaseless drip, drip, drip of what he at first thought to be red wine, but turned out to be his blood. Nadia leant across and it was warm and wet, and she laughed as he realised that the moggy was there in bed with them. Her spine thrilled deliciously at the thought of licking the cat's scratchings. His flesh crawled as hands and paws and lips probed. He felt his consciousness ebb away, like grains of sand in an hourglass. He purred in joy as outside the birds sang and the sheep baa'd. Nadia's tongue penetrated deeper into his ear. He was certain it was on a direct course for his brain!
Mandy Smith
Nadia laughed as the warm, smooth hand loosely caressed her ankle. There was peace inside the cottage. A pussy purred contentedly in the sun, murmuring as though there were ten thousand souls in heavenly joy.
The window creaked open and Jason was startled at the forceful beat of a butterfly, as it fluttered in a gentle breeze. He could hear the sound of grasshoppers, and caught site of an oystercatcher in the field where the sheep were.
He was awakened by the ceaseless drip, drip, drip of what he at first thought to be red wine, but turned out to be his blood. Nadia leant across and it was warm and wet, and she laughed as he realised that the moggy was there in bed with them. Her spine thrilled deliciously at the thought of licking the cat's scratchings. His flesh crawled as hands and paws and lips probed. He felt his consciousness ebb away, like grains of sand in an hourglass. He purred in joy as outside the birds sang and the sheep baa'd. Nadia's tongue penetrated deeper into his ear. He was certain it was on a direct course for his brain!
Mandy Smith
sANDOR fERENCZI'S hAT
I first met Sandor Ferenczi at an IGA in Portobello, or there about. He was eating a fudgesicle, I, a rare meat sandwich soused in vinegar and cumin. He was reading an X-Men comic book, I, a copy of Swank. When I asked him, which I did, against my better judgment, ‘why he delivered his paper, On Forced Fantasies’, at the Sixth International Psycho-Analytic Congress in The Hague in 1920’, he answered, ‘do you like comic books?’ To which I replied, ‘no, but I surely like your hat, and indeed what a fine hat it is.’ Doctor Ferenczi smiled, his eyeglasses pinching the cone of his nose, and said, ‘the hat, yes, a most interesting topic, the hat that is a hat, but not a hat, the hatless hat.’ Then, against my better judgment, I asked, ‘is a hat a hat, or a representation of a phallus, a cock hat?’ To which he replied, his smile broadening, eyes frenzied and crossing in, ‘yes, a cock hat, a hat that is a hat, but not a hat, a phallus hat.’ I offered heir Doctor Ferenczi a bite of my sandwich, and he, a bite of his fudgesicle, and knowing no better, I snatched his hat from atop his head and ferenczied out the door, the poor be-speckled Doctor Ferenczi calling after me, ‘my hat, you have thieved me of my hat!’ Many years later, and ten thousand hours logged on the analytic couch, I came across Doctor Ferenczi again, this time standing under a lamppost waiting for a bus, his hat cinched round his chin with boxing twine. I approached him with caution, as I remembered thieving him of his hat many years before, in the produce aisle of the IGA in Portobello, or there about, and said, ‘Jell-O, dear Doctor Ferenczi?’ To which he replied, his fingers gibbeting the string round his chin, ‘yes, Jell-O, sometimes Jell-O is Jell-O, sometimes it is not.’ I offered to buy the fair Doctor a Paddy’s Stout and Lager, at a local alehouse I frequented infrequently, and restore his hat to him, as I had kept it hidden in a shoebox beneath my bed. He smiled, a toothsome smile, and said, ‘surely, and as for the hat, sometimes a hat is a hat, sometimes it isn’t.’ Then, against my better judgment, I asked, ‘why he delivered his paper, On Forced Fantasies’, at the Sixth International Psycho-Analytic Congress in The Hague in 1920?’ To which he answered, ‘do you like comic books?’ I smiled, a toothless smile, and stole his hat. As I ferenczied down the sidewalk, the fair Doctor’s hat cinched up under my arm, he called after me, saying, ‘sometimes a hat is a hat, sometimes it is a phallus, and sometimes, a hat is nothing more than a Freudian fantasy gone terribly wrong’. I first met Sandor Ferenczi…
end of time
Messiaen ripples from an open
window on 57th Street. Driver
parking fancies himself a member
of an ensemble, a new quartet
for piano, car alarm, cellphone, dog
barking at the end of time. Piano
fades under SUVs, impatient drivers
who want nothing more than to fly
from the city to tomorrow. I fall
in with the rhythm of an inbound train,
take two steps at a time so we will
arrive together, settle in for its ten
minute lullaby, wander away into still
another song.
window on 57th Street. Driver
parking fancies himself a member
of an ensemble, a new quartet
for piano, car alarm, cellphone, dog
barking at the end of time. Piano
fades under SUVs, impatient drivers
who want nothing more than to fly
from the city to tomorrow. I fall
in with the rhythm of an inbound train,
take two steps at a time so we will
arrive together, settle in for its ten
minute lullaby, wander away into still
another song.
Forming Your Identity
Joan Houlihan, enjoying a delectable (and well-earned, I might add) chocolate-and-mascarpone treat, turned to see a long-haired fu-manchu limbo to the "Banana Boat Song"."Thats Stoner rock man! ... lol.”
A first person narrative about growing up with a Caucasian [wearing a banana costume]: Joan Houlihan, enjoying a huge influx of designers, is a private banana who bruises easily.
Well let me see, last time Joan Houlihan, enjoying a Lifetime of Practice, checked, the WHITE men said Fu Manchu was trying to unite all of Asia to take over the world. hmmm where have Joan Houlihan, enjoying a joke on TV, heard that? Photography helps you find the perfect!
"This is a triumph for you, Smith," Joan Houlihan, enjoying a cup of tea at the unusual Pitch Black Café, said. Built for the dark elves, a much under-used army, Joan Houihan enjoyed canning her fresh produce.
"Joan Houlihan, enjoying a Meat Free Diet, will devote the whole of my attention to Dr. Fu-Manchu!" he added grimly. Fu Manchu could only play for so long onstage '"That is almost incredible," Joan Houlihan, enjoying a Drink Sitting at a Table in a Bar, said.
Fu Manchu plots to assassinate foreign world leaders by using slave girls with poisoned lips. Oh Gawd Joan, Houlihan, you are really beginning to bore me.
A first person narrative about growing up with a Caucasian [wearing a banana costume]: Joan Houlihan, enjoying a huge influx of designers, is a private banana who bruises easily.
Well let me see, last time Joan Houlihan, enjoying a Lifetime of Practice, checked, the WHITE men said Fu Manchu was trying to unite all of Asia to take over the world. hmmm where have Joan Houlihan, enjoying a joke on TV, heard that? Photography helps you find the perfect!
"This is a triumph for you, Smith," Joan Houlihan, enjoying a cup of tea at the unusual Pitch Black Café, said. Built for the dark elves, a much under-used army, Joan Houihan enjoyed canning her fresh produce.
"Joan Houlihan, enjoying a Meat Free Diet, will devote the whole of my attention to Dr. Fu-Manchu!" he added grimly. Fu Manchu could only play for so long onstage '"That is almost incredible," Joan Houlihan, enjoying a Drink Sitting at a Table in a Bar, said.
Fu Manchu plots to assassinate foreign world leaders by using slave girls with poisoned lips. Oh Gawd Joan, Houlihan, you are really beginning to bore me.
Meet you in Spring
red is the haunting specter
shrieking isolated
summoned you out of skin
released the mortal chariot
beneath mount zion
we have become rumors
in the elysian fields
where you rest
time has been broken
in the divinity of your soul
you have transcended the fall
now you design eternity
and we beckon to our lives
fate haunting relentless
farewell stoic warrior
meet you in spring
For Okan
my cousin departed
Billy Jno Hope
red is the haunting specter
shrieking isolated
summoned you out of skin
released the mortal chariot
beneath mount zion
we have become rumors
in the elysian fields
where you rest
time has been broken
in the divinity of your soul
you have transcended the fall
now you design eternity
and we beckon to our lives
fate haunting relentless
farewell stoic warrior
meet you in spring
For Okan
my cousin departed
Billy Jno Hope
Black gold; Green gold
Greens under pressure
Layer on layer; black gold
Engines thirst for more
In the heat of time
Thrilling goals we will avoid
And spill like madmen
Oil sands: a temptation
Greedy men can not resist
It takes many lives
No more crude energy
We need greening of black gold
Time is running out
Lies to get control
Barrels hidden in the ground
Blood spilled for access
Sources will run dry
No one cuts on energy
Endless wars we’ll fight
Farmers press on corn
End of all discussion
Green gold, new black gold
Layer on layer; black gold
Engines thirst for more
In the heat of time
Thrilling goals we will avoid
And spill like madmen
Oil sands: a temptation
Greedy men can not resist
It takes many lives
No more crude energy
We need greening of black gold
Time is running out
Lies to get control
Barrels hidden in the ground
Blood spilled for access
Sources will run dry
No one cuts on energy
Endless wars we’ll fight
Farmers press on corn
End of all discussion
Green gold, new black gold
Libre....
Once someone told me
It was beyond his imagination how
such a thing as free verse
came to be called Poetry.
For poetry was a lofted thought;
a sublime articulation
of a supremely gifted heart,
to be put in exquisite rhyme and meter.
Once he finished, I just said
In case of an untoward
event, Do not panic.
Stay calm.
And proceed to the nearest exit.
Press 2 if you want to
hear the message again.
It was beyond his imagination how
such a thing as free verse
came to be called Poetry.
For poetry was a lofted thought;
a sublime articulation
of a supremely gifted heart,
to be put in exquisite rhyme and meter.
Once he finished, I just said
In case of an untoward
event, Do not panic.
Stay calm.
And proceed to the nearest exit.
Press 2 if you want to
hear the message again.
I'm soaking in it
I left the dishes in the sink last night. They were too stubborn to clean themselves so I left them to soak. They woke me in the night taunting me with their filthy language. Incomprehensible, I threatened them with soap and a washcloth. A suited man rode in through the fog, on a horse behind them, claiming that I had committed a horrible, horrible crime and would have to submit to questioning. The horse, startled by the dancing dishes, trampled my flower beds and the dishes, smashing them left and right. The suited man got off his high horse and tore at his suit with the remains of the unwashed dishes. He stopped shrieking, found the door back into the night. I read for awhile and fell asleep.
meeting notes
8/28
castro castellum
constellation
stars’ battle-camp
distribute astro
where order with
strew out across.
.
no VUS
KNAVE us
vanguard novus
box in the road
translate new dia
logues.
.
we are us
no way to go
we have new
not new road
van translate
carry on us
no van carry
on us trans via.
.
you don’t say the words
because they mean anything --
you say them because
they sound right.
.
8/29
it all started now.
.
I will try before the meeting
more details to you
reviews of each process
should be involved
the two specific actual cases
the ultimate goal to be made
is to have on the two changes
if you have a conflict
that only one or two representatives
.
I’ll put me down, there’s a chord
of association that passes between
the apse and confessional stalls
at the back. I’ll put me down in
the cathedral, an architecture passing
between the aisles, the pews,
the praying congregation, put me
at the altar, put down the sphaera mundi.
it’s a play of fettered space.
castro castellum
constellation
stars’ battle-camp
distribute astro
where order with
strew out across.
.
no VUS
KNAVE us
vanguard novus
box in the road
translate new dia
logues.
.
we are us
no way to go
we have new
not new road
van translate
carry on us
no van carry
on us trans via.
.
you don’t say the words
because they mean anything --
you say them because
they sound right.
.
8/29
it all started now.
.
I will try before the meeting
more details to you
reviews of each process
should be involved
the two specific actual cases
the ultimate goal to be made
is to have on the two changes
if you have a conflict
that only one or two representatives
.
I’ll put me down, there’s a chord
of association that passes between
the apse and confessional stalls
at the back. I’ll put me down in
the cathedral, an architecture passing
between the aisles, the pews,
the praying congregation, put me
at the altar, put down the sphaera mundi.
it’s a play of fettered space.
Say No to Japan
The good news is that the growth of Yao Ming coincides with my rediscovery. That's all I've been thinking today. That and "Dubai!" In fact, I have adopted "Dubai!" as my hello and goodbye. In case there are any home runs. I also use it to exclaim joy or confusion or sadness. Basically, it works in all situations. "Dubai?" Brilliant. DUBAI!
Yao Ming was reminding me today that this whole rediscovery thing works out quite swell. One of the side-effects is when you're walking and your thinking so fast and so much that your brain says "Hey buddy." Your brain thinks so too. You each sit down on the stump there over by the creek and you put on your thinking caps. The grass is showing right past the snow. It's growing. Not the grass though, the sign. KEEP OF GRASS, OR ELSE WE'LL THROW BRICKS OFF YOU. You don't want unidentified beings to throw bricks off you so you sure as shit stay of the grass. So does your brain even though it makes no sense. You also don't think your bouncy enough for the job and neither does your brain. Your brain again says "Hey buddy." That's what Yao Ming was reminding me about.
In my dream, Yao Ming was dancing interpretively. It was a nice dance where he waved his arm like the cloud waves at the sun when it's sexually aroused. I didn't think Yao Ming could do that. He can. I say, "Yao, Dubai!" Yao launches into some tirade about how difficult it has become to scale brick buildings. Something about the cement having worms or some other such plague. So when you try to climb them, the plague germs all come out and they tickle your cells. You can't feel the tickle though, you just fall and break your leg and three ears. The third ear you bought just in case you should break an ear. Dubai! Betcha' never thought you'd break the replacement ear AND two others. The world is madness.
Speed dial, #5. Yao Ming.
The good thing about Yao is he discovered the treasure in my ceiling. His head knocked it from the sky. My hands aren't even tall enough to touch that. Crazy! Dubai! These days, I just sit there on my treasure and do nothing but think about the treasure and treasure my good fortune which is the treasure. That's the sort of thing a person does when they discover treasure. They retire. No more need to go on living like you hadn't discovered a treasure. Especially if you discovered it without a map and fighting crocodiles and being on the sea and so forth. If you discover a treasure while not doing any of that stuff, that's some good discovering and you should be proud. Technically Yao discovered the treasure, but I forgot about that just now. Dang, I wish I discovered that treasure. Oh well, guess it's back to work.
Yao Ming was reminding me today that this whole rediscovery thing works out quite swell. One of the side-effects is when you're walking and your thinking so fast and so much that your brain says "Hey buddy." Your brain thinks so too. You each sit down on the stump there over by the creek and you put on your thinking caps. The grass is showing right past the snow. It's growing. Not the grass though, the sign. KEEP OF GRASS, OR ELSE WE'LL THROW BRICKS OFF YOU. You don't want unidentified beings to throw bricks off you so you sure as shit stay of the grass. So does your brain even though it makes no sense. You also don't think your bouncy enough for the job and neither does your brain. Your brain again says "Hey buddy." That's what Yao Ming was reminding me about.
In my dream, Yao Ming was dancing interpretively. It was a nice dance where he waved his arm like the cloud waves at the sun when it's sexually aroused. I didn't think Yao Ming could do that. He can. I say, "Yao, Dubai!" Yao launches into some tirade about how difficult it has become to scale brick buildings. Something about the cement having worms or some other such plague. So when you try to climb them, the plague germs all come out and they tickle your cells. You can't feel the tickle though, you just fall and break your leg and three ears. The third ear you bought just in case you should break an ear. Dubai! Betcha' never thought you'd break the replacement ear AND two others. The world is madness.
Speed dial, #5. Yao Ming.
J: Hey Yao, I was thinking the other day about Dubai and I wanted to tell you something about it but I forgot how to speed dial until today so I just speed dialed you and I'm going to tell you now.
Y: Dubai motherfucker, motherfucking Dubai.
J: Exactly! How'd you know Yao, have they been speaking to you too!?
Y: Du-fucking-bai!
J: Well goddamn, we're in this together then. We're taking them down. The Roman empire will be no more.
Y: Well you've got to be careful, they have an ambush setup in the woods and if your flank pushes too far beyond the archers, I'm afraid you'll have no defense.
J: Alright. Thanks Yao.
The good thing about Yao is he discovered the treasure in my ceiling. His head knocked it from the sky. My hands aren't even tall enough to touch that. Crazy! Dubai! These days, I just sit there on my treasure and do nothing but think about the treasure and treasure my good fortune which is the treasure. That's the sort of thing a person does when they discover treasure. They retire. No more need to go on living like you hadn't discovered a treasure. Especially if you discovered it without a map and fighting crocodiles and being on the sea and so forth. If you discover a treasure while not doing any of that stuff, that's some good discovering and you should be proud. Technically Yao discovered the treasure, but I forgot about that just now. Dang, I wish I discovered that treasure. Oh well, guess it's back to work.
ONE definition
Pome: sound emited by San Francisco Bay Area mouths when talking about a literary body traditionally written in verse, and sometimes in prose.
Usage note: often preceeded, in the Bay Area, by one of the following: great, wonderful, lovely, amazing. Not to be confused with an english speaking mouth's pronunciation of the french word pomme, which is an apple.
Usage note: often preceeded, in the Bay Area, by one of the following: great, wonderful, lovely, amazing. Not to be confused with an english speaking mouth's pronunciation of the french word pomme, which is an apple.
Plastique
Plastic unravels,
Lines each pothole, beach and lurks in waters.
Headlines shriek, and five thousand dollar a second celebrities,
Wave and stand, as couturier's pin them up for the Oscars.
'Evil threatens the very fabric,' and they position the net over my brain,
In an attempt to strain my brain of all its…
What?
I don't recall.
Yes I'll donate to your cause,
I'll march and I'll…
What did you say?
The end is nigh,
Coffers border on exploding,
Guilt trips tangle together.
Why don't you buy this germ free cloth,
Enviro-coffer friendly bags and down with everything that doesn't fall in line.
Or else…
What?
Eat mushroom clouds,
Posthumously, of course
Just Wait Till Your Name Spreads
the deth of the peres of Fraunce began an association
with a bunch mood personality to change,
A Tomahawk Poem to lacerate the skulls of your enemies.
The wise man shal not take too gret comfort seeing
a welter dusting off my MC Hammer albums.
He Stomped on the Terra, and he left his elegant hoof .
Id like to kill you but you are The Deth Rattle.
I think it's quite premature to call this the "death".
I really saw Crystal Ship. A lot. Fuck you. I was young.
Uriah Heep, Steely Dan, Capt Beyond
are an insufficient user illusion.
Oh fuck! My Beanie Baby shipment!
Probably The Best or My Poetry
Is Too Advanced To Be Appreciated Here.
You will fuck that president with peculiar kindness.
with a bunch mood personality to change,
A Tomahawk Poem to lacerate the skulls of your enemies.
The wise man shal not take too gret comfort seeing
a welter dusting off my MC Hammer albums.
He Stomped on the Terra, and he left his elegant hoof .
Id like to kill you but you are The Deth Rattle.
I think it's quite premature to call this the "death".
I really saw Crystal Ship. A lot. Fuck you. I was young.
Uriah Heep, Steely Dan, Capt Beyond
are an insufficient user illusion.
Oh fuck! My Beanie Baby shipment!
Probably The Best or My Poetry
Is Too Advanced To Be Appreciated Here.
You will fuck that president with peculiar kindness.
Méthode
définition de philosophie pratique de la méthode Spinoziste c'est-à-dire à la lettre l'énoncé de la marque distinctive d'une chose considérée en elle-même c'est-à-dire à la lettre pour la méthode spinoZiZte non pas nous faire connaître quelque chose mais nous faire comprendre notre puissance de connaître Il s'agit donc de prendre conscience de cette puissanceconnaissance réflexive ou idée de l'idée tout ça tiré de G.D SPP pp.84 85 115
sinon sioui si convient pas alors chercher autre méthode non pas dans l'écorce mais dans une substance chlorophylique extensiveible sinon sioui si trop long pas assez concret alors plutôt écouter
sinon sioui si convient pas alors chercher autre méthode non pas dans l'écorce mais dans une substance chlorophylique extensiveible sinon sioui si trop long pas assez concret alors plutôt écouter
Jean
If only I had had the time to be more
succinct, then you would not be reading
this, my third line of verse shit. Nor
would you be about to be remembering
the time you commented on your name,
on how in our two respective tongues
its signifier could at once be a female
or male signified in the domain of la langue.
We both knew who you were, what sex you were.
But the foreigner used your name to unsex you on the spot,
to comment on your lack of feminine masculinity
or was it to make fun of your masculine femininity?
In that each time unique moment when your name was spat,
it was you who was moist with saliva, not your wear, your coeur.
Pay your respect ! ( a very little note to our beloved Cliff from le french guy writing le english from far down into his kitchen ...)
Our host is gentle.
Our host is gentle 'n fast
Welcoming each poetic effort.
Cliff hanging (ah ah ah !)high at the mast
Taking you sure at the right port.
I've send him a pitiful draft
Twistin' his mind into yo yo !
He wanted to grant my craft ...
But couldn't release this ugly motto!
I received much of his dearest feelings
As my tricky poem drowned for sure.
Cliff assured me with friendly meanings :
He always give ev'rybody a hearted gesture.
Thanks to you my lyrical lord !
May my artistic alleageance be accepted
You look at my clumsy works with kind eyes
This warms my soul and motivate my mind at once !
But i cant help making joke my dear Cliff and i'gotta put my hand on the last word.
As we say in France "tout finit par des chansons".
So Hail to Cliff and Shatner united !
coming to terms
slumped on my table,
i pressed the palms of my hands
firmly against my eyes;
too tired to read our dog-eared book,
languidly pared down
only
to listen to you speak
silently
in dialects of stillness.
i pressed the palms of my hands
firmly against my eyes;
too tired to read our dog-eared book,
languidly pared down
only
to listen to you speak
silently
in dialects of stillness.
eITHER wAY*
I was in a madhouse once, or was it a sanatorium? Either way, I was in a place where people wore white smocks and pens around their necks on string. The plants in my sanctuary, this windowless enclave, are dieing, or rather I am murdering them. I am a flora assassin, a slayer of greenery. I tried spitting on them but they recoiled in horror, one small aspidistra weeping uncontrollable, which, one would think, would have hydrated it, which it didn’t, and like the others it died a withering death. I tried wearing a white smock and a pen around my neck on a string, thinking it might help encourage me to do better things, to help make my plants lives’ that much the better. When I did this, the orderly, who was very disorderly and unshaven, pulled me aside, tethered me with a jacket, tweed, or was it gabardine, and set me in the corner to think over what I had done. I am in the selfsame corner now, my nose pressed into the brick, into a seam of caulking and mortar, writing this in my thoughts, in a sanatorium, so they tell me, but I tend to disbelieve them.
The critique of wasted time and conversations found only in women’s bathrooms.
The women stand,
legs like rows of cedars.
Some slender, lean.
Some curved thick stems.
Elbows resting,
they vie for the mirror
in a vulgar attempt
to paint beauty
like it could be constructed
with two hands and tubes
of tints.
Their talk is a foreign dialect,
nonsense!
They call those outside,
whores, and each other,
amongst themselves,
after one leaves the room.
They are animals
in high heels and short skirts,
Blow-dried hair,
bottle tans.
I hide, feet up in the stall.
Listen to each new stock
come in rotations.
Always the same garish
squeals.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)